When You Were Mine

“What about Emma?” I ask, and my voice comes out hard.

Nick drops his hands from his face, and half-walks, half-staggers over to the coffeemaker and pours himself a cup. “She’s having a hard time at college,” he says, his back to me. “Ally went up to see her. Sorry about the mess.” He lapses into silence, as if that is enough explanation.

I look around the dirty kitchen, and then I look down into my boy’s face. “Are you okay?” I ask softly and he nods against my chest.

“If you were having a problem managing Dylan’s care,” I tell Nick in a steady voice, “you should have been in contact with Susan.”

Nick turns to look at me blankly. “Who’s Susan?”

“Dylan’s caseworker?” I can’t believe I’m actually having this conversation. I’m the one whose child was taken away. “You have a social worker too.” I search my memory and come up with a name. “Monica.”

“Monica doesn’t need to know anything. It’s just a messy kitchen.”

Except it feels like so much more than that. The house has an empty, lonely, unloved feeling. How long has Ally been gone for? What’s really happened? Since Dylan doesn’t do well with change, he can’t have coped with this very well. “How’s Dylan been?” I ask.

Nick shrugs, seeming indifferent. “Fine.”

“He must miss Ally.” I hate saying that, but it’s basically a fact. “When did she leave?”

“Thursday night.”

Thursday? Thanksgiving? That was five days ago and nobody told me. But, of course, no one needed to tell me. Foster carers don’t need to explain about visits or interruptions, as long as one carer is present. The knowledge burns.

“And when is she getting back?”

“Tonight, hopefully. With Emma.” He sags against the counter, the cup of coffee in his hand forgotten.

“I’m taking Dylan out,” I say stiffly. “For two hours. I’ll bring him back after dinner.” Yesterday, Susan called me to say two visits a week, for two hours, had been approved—Tuesdays evenings and Saturday afternoons.

Nick shrugs again. “Okay.”

I feel like I could take Dylan away and never bring him back, and he wouldn’t care. Not trusting myself to say anything else, I ask Nick to get Dylan’s coat and then we leave.

It’s a cold, dark evening, more winter than autumn, as if the passing of Thanksgiving was the true changing of the seasons. I didn’t want to spend another afternoon with Dylan wandering around town, and so I tell him we’re going back home. He looks up at me with an anxious frown, but he doesn’t say anything, and holding his hand, we walk towards home.

I spent the morning cleaning the apartment, even though it didn’t need it; I even bought the same kind of lemon cleaning spray I saw at Ally’s house. I’ve made chocolate chip cookies, and there is a lasagna in the oven. I want to show Dylan that our home can be as warm and welcoming as Ally’s, even more so, but it feels like a competition I’ll never be able to win.

And yet I’m his mother. His mama, the woman who birthed and nursed and loved him since the second I knew I was pregnant. Shouldn’t that count for something? Shouldn’t it count for everything?

Back at the apartment, Dylan looks around cautiously, and I can’t tell what he’s feeling, which is so disconcerting. Normally I’d know.

“Look, Dyl, I got some craft stuff, and a new puzzle.” All bought new at the boutique little toy store in town, an expense I can’t really afford, but one I hope is well worth it. And yes, it’s all a bribe. So what?

Dylan goes to the puzzle on the coffee table and opens the box. I sit next to him and watch as he sorts pieces, but it all feels a bit rote. Every few seconds, he glances up at me and I smile, but he doesn’t.

I tell myself not to feel hurt, that I can’t put my own emotions before Dylan’s. Of course he’s bound to be confused, uncertain, his loyalties divided. Ally’s showered him with possessions and attention, and I’ve been absent. Maybe he thinks I’m angry with him. Maybe he’s afraid I don’t care.

“Soon, Dylan, you’ll be home with me again,” I say as he starts putting the edges of the puzzle together. “Just you and me. Won’t that be nice? I can’t wait.”

Dylan’s head is bent over the puzzle and he doesn’t look at me as I keep talking.

“I know it’s been hard, having you live with Ally. I miss you so much, and I know you must miss me.” He tenses, just a tiny bit, but I notice. “Do you miss me, Dylan?” I ask, and then curse myself. What a question to ask.

He looks up slowly, his hair—unbrushed today—sliding into his eyes. Slowly, he nods, but I can’t tell if he means it.

I force myself to keep talking.

“It’s okay if you haven’t missed me all the time, or even all that much. I know it must be really nice at Ally’s house. Your room is so nice there.” I wait, but he simply lowers his head and keeps on with the puzzle.