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Authors: Dorothy Koomson
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had been. Nothing could change that. It was Kyle and his wife's duty now to spare them as much pain as possible.
“I'm not saying Ashlyn is perfect. I don't know her. But you have to be as close to perfect as you can get. Don't your kids deserve that? And if you can't do that, then give them to someone else who will at least try to be.” Oh that sounded pathetic. As though I was on a TV show where everything would be tied up nicely at the end of fifty minutes. Where, after listening to my bons mots, Kyle would pick up the phone, call his wife and when she answered, the first thing he'd say would be, “Let's talk …” and they'd work out some arrangement that would benefit everyone.
The truth was, whatever I said, no matter how much he listened now, his hurt, anger and pride would seep back in over the following hours, he'd want to hurt her as much as she'd hurt him and that would mean using the only weapons he had: Jaxon and Summer. Summer and Jaxon. The two people in this who probably wanted nothing more than to have their parents reunited, to have their ripped- apart family sewn back together again.
“To be honest, Kendra, you know nothing about it,” Kyle replied. Maybe it wouldn't take that long for his anger to seep back in.
“No, I don't,” I admitted.
“But thank you for coming when the kids came to you.”
“That's fine. I'll always come. But I can't promise not to call social services if it happens again.”
Kyle's face did a double-take, hardened into a state ofshock, his eyes slightly rounded, his lips pressed firmly together, his jaw rippling as he ground his teeth together. Inside I drew back a little. This was his real anger. This was when he'd really turn on me.
The back door flew open and Summer dashed in, Jaxon bringing up the rear. “Can we have ice cream? From the ice cream shop?” she asked, racing to a stop in front of her father. He ignored her because he was glaring at me. “Dad,” Summer insisted, tugging at the hem of his T-shirt. “Can we have ice cream?” she asked again.
Kyle's eyes burnt into me.
“Dad!” Summer shouted at the top of her lungs, needing to be heard.
“Yes?” he asked, finally turning to focus on his daughter.
“Can we have ice cream?” she asked. “From the ice cream shop?”
“Um,” Kyle began, “yes. Why not? Let me go put on my shoes and get my jacket and wallet and phone.”
Jaxon came to me, slipped his hand into mine. His hand was warm, the skin soft. I hadn't held a child's hand in nearly three years—since I last saw my nieces and nephews in Italy. A sense of calmness came over me, followed by the kick of sadness. I had to concentrate on the tiny little lines in his skin, his square, neat nails, to stop myself from tearing up. To stop the sadness welling up and over. Summer watched him, then said, “Jaxon wants to know if Kendie can come, too?”
“I think she's busy,” Kyle said, pointedly. He really didn't want me around. Funnily enough, I didn't want to be around him, either.
“I am busy,” I agreed. “I should probably go to work.”
Jaxon's short, fat fingers tightened around my palm, as though urging, pleading with me, to come with them.
“You have to come,” Summer said.
Jaxon's fingers continued to cling to my hand.
“You can't force her to come,” Kyle said. A rivulet of a threat ran through his voice, warning me off. I'd crossed the line by threatening his family unit and he wasn't going to put up with it. Which was fine. More than fine. The man needed a rocket underneath him. A fire that would make him pay attention to his children, fight for them. Not against his wife. But against himself. He needed to see that the problem here wasn't his wife, but him. His indifference, his anger, his resentment that these children were with him—that was the biggest threat in their lives.
“No, really, I have something to do,” I said.
Jaxon's face began to close down, like dominoes falling. His expression went from
“I'm not saying Ashlyn is perfect. I don't know her. But you have to be as close to perfect as you can get. Don't your kids deserve that? And if you can't do that, then give them to someone else who will at least try to be.” Oh that sounded pathetic. As though I was on a TV show where everything would be tied up nicely at the end of fifty minutes. Where, after listening to my bons mots, Kyle would pick up the phone, call his wife and when she answered, the first thing he'd say would be, “Let's talk …” and they'd work out some arrangement that would benefit everyone.
The truth was, whatever I said, no matter how much he listened now, his hurt, anger and pride would seep back in over the following hours, he'd want to hurt her as much as she'd hurt him and that would mean using the only weapons he had: Jaxon and Summer. Summer and Jaxon. The two people in this who probably wanted nothing more than to have their parents reunited, to have their ripped- apart family sewn back together again.
“To be honest, Kendra, you know nothing about it,” Kyle replied. Maybe it wouldn't take that long for his anger to seep back in.
“No, I don't,” I admitted.
“But thank you for coming when the kids came to you.”
“That's fine. I'll always come. But I can't promise not to call social services if it happens again.”
Kyle's face did a double-take, hardened into a state ofshock, his eyes slightly rounded, his lips pressed firmly together, his jaw rippling as he ground his teeth together. Inside I drew back a little. This was his real anger. This was when he'd really turn on me.
The back door flew open and Summer dashed in, Jaxon bringing up the rear. “Can we have ice cream? From the ice cream shop?” she asked, racing to a stop in front of her father. He ignored her because he was glaring at me. “Dad,” Summer insisted, tugging at the hem of his T-shirt. “Can we have ice cream?” she asked again.
Kyle's eyes burnt into me.
“Dad!” Summer shouted at the top of her lungs, needing to be heard.
“Yes?” he asked, finally turning to focus on his daughter.
“Can we have ice cream?” she asked. “From the ice cream shop?”
“Um,” Kyle began, “yes. Why not? Let me go put on my shoes and get my jacket and wallet and phone.”
Jaxon came to me, slipped his hand into mine. His hand was warm, the skin soft. I hadn't held a child's hand in nearly three years—since I last saw my nieces and nephews in Italy. A sense of calmness came over me, followed by the kick of sadness. I had to concentrate on the tiny little lines in his skin, his square, neat nails, to stop myself from tearing up. To stop the sadness welling up and over. Summer watched him, then said, “Jaxon wants to know if Kendie can come, too?”
“I think she's busy,” Kyle said, pointedly. He really didn't want me around. Funnily enough, I didn't want to be around him, either.
“I am busy,” I agreed. “I should probably go to work.”
Jaxon's short, fat fingers tightened around my palm, as though urging, pleading with me, to come with them.
“You have to come,” Summer said.
Jaxon's fingers continued to cling to my hand.
“You can't force her to come,” Kyle said. A rivulet of a threat ran through his voice, warning me off. I'd crossed the line by threatening his family unit and he wasn't going to put up with it. Which was fine. More than fine. The man needed a rocket underneath him. A fire that would make him pay attention to his children, fight for them. Not against his wife. But against himself. He needed to see that the problem here wasn't his wife, but him. His indifference, his anger, his resentment that these children were with him—that was the biggest threat in their lives.
“No, really, I have something to do,” I said.
Jaxon's face began to close down, like dominoes falling. His expression went from
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