“I have every right.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and taps the screen, then holds it up to my face.
The words on the screen blur. “What’s this?”
“My parental rights.”
I snatch the phone from him to read the email properly. The screen shakes in my trembling hand. “You did a paternity test?” Water leaks from my eyes. I thought I was all cried out after last night. “You doubted he was yours?” My voice croaks out the words.
“I never doubted it. The first time I held him, I knew he was mine. I wanted to make sure you knew. You were being so fucking difficult. I won’t have you tell me when and where I can see my son.”
“When did you even do the test?” How can he do this behind my back?
“It was at the park when you went to get ice creams. I ordered a fast tracked test the day before. I had to make sure I could see him.”
“What did you do? Did it hurt him?” My throat is sore and scratchy when I speak.
“No, it was just a mouth swab. He was fine. I wouldn’t hurt my own kid. I was scared you’d make things difficult for me.”
“I wasn’t meaning to be difficult. I was trying to protect him.”
“Protect him from what? I’m his fucking dad.”
“And how do you think it’s going to affect him each time you leave to go back to your other family? I was trying to shield him from abandonment. You said yourself you’re going back next week. I never want him to feel what I felt each time you left me.”
He rubs his middle finger over his eyebrow. “I’m sorry.”
“You don't have to be sorry. I blame myself.” I hate myself for allowing him to worm his way into my life. Every time I give him my heart, I know he won’t take care of it properly, but I keep giving it to him, anyway. If I can shield my son from that, then I will.
The sour residue of alcohol lingers on my tongue. I stare into the living room mirror at yesterday’s stained clothes, lifting my lank, greasy hair. My repulsive reflection contrasts the gold edged ornate mirror.
With anger spiking and shooting out into every limb, I grab the empty bottle of wine from the coffee table and throw it at the drab shadow of myself on the wall.
Glass shatters all around me from the bottle and mirror as it falls out of the frame. My legs cave. I drop to a heap on the floor, feeling the shards of glass beneath me. My shoulders rock as I sob uncontrollably, and I hide my face with my hands.
“Fucking hell, Steph, what the fuck are you doing?” Cal steps towards me, crunching the glass with his boots against the laminate flooring. Crouching, he wraps his arms around me, which only makes me worse.
I inhale the mint of his shampoo and the scent of his aftershave. The scruff on his jaw scratches my cheek, and I reminisce about all the things that will never be. I want to fight him, tell him to leave me alone and not touch me, but my body doesn’t have the energy and my broken heart still thinks he holds the missing piece.
He hooks his arm under mine and lifts me to my feet. “Watch your step.”
With bare feet, I lean on Cal as he helps me to the bedroom. I sit on the bed, and he kneels before me, picking the glass from my leggings.
“You’ve made a right fucking mess of your legs.”
“I don’t care.” I cover my face with my arm so I don’t have to face him.
“Steph, you’re bleeding. Take these off.” He steps out of the room, and I peel away yesterday’s leggings. Blood trickles down my prickly legs, but I don’t feel any pain. I’m numb, just going through the motions until I can sleep and leave the nightmare reality I’m living. Cal returns with a washcloth and a first-aid kit from my bathroom. He kneels in front of me, wiping my blood stained skin.
My legs shake as he runs the cloth over my knee, and I tug my cardigan down to cover my thighs.
“Not your brightest idea, was it?”
“Don’t patronise me.” I shove his hand from my knee, but he grips it firmly and holds a cotton pad from the first-aid kit against my shin.
“It’s just the kids, Steph. What if one of the kids treads on a loose piece of glass? I have to clean that fucking room from top to bottom now. It’s all over the fucking settee and everything.”
“Just go. I’ll clean it.” I try to move my legs to the side, but he holds them firmly in place as he wraps a bandage around my foot.
“I’ll fucking clean it,” he growls, tying off the bandage. “What about the seven years’ bad luck?”