Page 12 of Hiss and Tell
How his hand had felt warm and steady against mine.
Stop it. This is a business arrangement. Fake dating to solve a realproblem. Don’t make it more complicated than it needs to be.
But when I pick up Milo from Little Dragons, his first question isn’t about snacks or playtime.
“Can we go see Mr. Sebastian again soon? I want to show him my new dinosaur book.”
“We’ll see him soon at storytime,” I remind him. “Mr. Sebastian is trying hard to make that happen as quickly as possible.”
“Good,” Milo says with satisfaction. “I like him. He makes you smile differently.”
“Differently how?”
“Like you smile when Daddy keeps his promises.”
The observation hits me hard. When did my four-year-old become so perceptive about adult emotions? When did he start measuring my happiness against Derek’s failures?
That evening, as I tuck him into bed with Super Steggy and his new dinosaur book, Milo looks up at me with serious eyes.
“Mama? Do you think Daddy will really come this time?” The question is so quietly hopeful it breaks my heart.
“He promised he would, Bug.”
“But he promised before, too.” Milo’s grip on Super Steggy tightens. “Maybe I shouldn’t get too excited. Maybe I should just… expect it might not happen.”
The matter-of-fact resignation in his voice is devastating. My four-year-old is learning to armor his heart against disappointment, and I can’t protect him from it.
“Sweetheart, it’s okay to be excited about things you want. That’s what hope is—believing good things can happen even when they’ve gone wrong before.”
“But what if he doesn’t come? What if something important comes up again?”
I smooth his hair back, my throat tight. “Then we’ll figure it out. We always do. You and me, we’re a team.”
“I know,” Milo says softly. “You’re right…”
My son may only be four, but he’s almost too perceptive for his own good.
After he falls asleep, I sit in my tiny living room surrounded by the organized chaos of single motherhood and wonder when my son learned to hope carefully.
Chapter Nine
Sebastian
It strikes me again that, just like yesterday, Tuesday’s storytime feels different without Milo’s enthusiastic presence in the front row. The children settle into their usual spots, but Tyler keeps glancing toward the door as if expecting his best friend to appear.
“Where’s Milo?” asks Grace, one of the regulars, her lower lip starting to tremble.
“He’s taking a little break from storytime,” I say gently, my sanctuary effect automatically flowing to ease the children’s disappointment. “But he’ll be back soon.”
Mrs. Randall, her mouth pursed in its perpetual state of disapproval, observes from her usual spot near the informationdesk as she makes a note on her clipboard. Even my snakes seem subdued, their usual animated preparations for story magic lacking their typical enthusiasm.
The dream manifestation feels harder today, requiring more conscious effort without Milo’s wonder to amplify the magic. When I create a small dragon to accompany today’s tale, it seems dimmer somehow, less vibrant than the spectacular displays Milo’s presence usually inspires.
“The dragon looks sad,” Tyler observes with four-year-old honesty. “Like he misses someone.”
“Maybe he does,” I admit, letting the spectral creature settle on my shoulder. “Sometimes when our friends aren’t with us, everything feels a little less bright.”
After storytime, my supervisor Jenny approaches with her tablet and the perplexed expression that means bureaucratic complications.
