When My Boyfriend Let Her Call Him Daddy

I woke up to the sound of Andres laughing in the hallway.

The clock said seven. I hadn't slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I smelled that perfume.

Greyson was already up. His side of the bed was cold.

I pulled on a sweater and walked into the kitchen. Lina stood at the stove, humming. She wore leggings and an oversized white shirt. Greyson's shirt. I recognized the frayed collar.

Andres sat at the table, coloring. Greyson leaned against the counter with his coffee, scrolling through his phone.

"Morning," I said.

Lina turned. "Oh! Good morning, Kathryn. I made oatmeal. I hope that's okay."

I didn't answer. I just pulled out a chair and sat down.

Greyson glanced up. "Sleep okay?"

"Fine."

He went back to his phone.

Lina lifted the pot off the stove. It was heavy. I could see her arms strain a little as she carried it toward the table.

"Andres, baby, move your crayons," she said softly.

She took two steps.

Then she stumbled.

The pot tipped. Boiling oatmeal arced through the air in slow motion. It hit my forearm like a brand.

I gasped. The pain was instant and white-hot. I jerked back, knocking my chair over.

"Oh my God!" Lina dropped the pot. It clattered onto the floor. "I'm so sorry! Oh no, oh no—"

Greyson moved.

But not toward me.

He lunged across the kitchen and grabbed Lina's hands, turning them over, checking her palms. "Are you okay? Did it burn you?"

"I—I don't think so." Her voice shook. "I'm so sorry, Greyson. I don't know what happened. I just—"

"It's okay. You're okay." He pulled her into his chest. One hand on the back of her head. "You're fine."

I stood there, cradling my arm. The skin was already blistering. Red and angry and screaming.

Nobody looked at me.

I turned and walked to the bathroom. My legs felt like they belonged to someone else.

I locked the door. Turned on the faucet. Held my arm under the cold water.

The burn throbbed in time with my heartbeat. I watched the water run over the welts and thought about nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Twenty minutes passed.

A knock.

"Kat?" Greyson's voice. "You good?"

I turned off the water. Dried my arm carefully with a towel. The blisters were raw and shiny.

"Yeah."

I opened the door.

He was standing there with his hands in his pockets. "Let me see."

I held out my arm.

He winced. "That looks bad. You should put something on it."

"I will."

He nodded. Then he scratched the back of his neck. "Look, it was an accident. Lina feels terrible. She's in there crying."

I stared at him.

"Anyway," he said, "she made a reservation at that place in SoHo. The one with the garden. Thought it'd be nice for the three of us to get brunch. You know, start over."

"She made a reservation."

"Yeah. Eleven thirty. Sound good?"

I looked down at my arm. At the blisters that would scar.

"Sure," I said.

His face relaxed. "Great. I'll tell her."

He walked away.

I stood in the hallway and realized he never asked how much it hurt.

---

Over the next three days, I started to notice things.

Small things.

My favorite mug was gone. The blue one with the chipped handle. I'd had it since college. I asked Greyson about it.

"Oh," he said. "That old thing? It broke. I threw it out."

It hadn't been old. It had been mine.

I opened the bedroom closet to hang up a jacket. Half my space was gone. Lina's dresses hung where my coats used to be. Soft fabrics. Neutral colors. They smelled like jasmine.

I didn't say anything. I just closed the door.

On the third morning, I walked into the kitchen for coffee. Andres was at the table again, eating cereal.

I glanced at the refrigerator.

A drawing was pinned to the door with a magnet. Crayon stick figures. One tall, one medium, one small.

Labels in wobbly letters: "Daddy," "Mommy," "Me."

I stood there, holding my empty mug.

Greyson came in behind me. "Morning."

"Morning," I said. I pointed at the drawing. "That's new."

He looked. "Oh. Yeah. Andres made it yesterday. Cute, right?"

"He wrote 'Mommy.'"

"He's five, Kat. He doesn't know the difference."

"Did you correct him?"

Greyson's jaw tightened. "What?"

"Did you tell him Lina's not his mommy? That I'm—" I stopped.

That I'm what? Not his mommy either. Not anybody's anything in this apartment.

Greyson poured himself coffee. "You're making this bigger than it is."

"Am I."

"Yeah." He turned to face me. "You are. He's a kid. Kids draw pictures. It doesn't mean anything."

I looked at the drawing again. At the three smiling faces holding hands.

"Right," I said.

I left my mug on the counter and walked out.

That night, I lay awake again. Greyson snored softly beside me. I stared at the ceiling and counted.

One mug. Half a closet. One drawing.

One burn that nobody cared about.

I turned my head and looked at him in the dark. His face was peaceful. He had no idea.

Or maybe he did. Maybe that was worse.