gold.” He could hear the bitterness in his own tone.
His mother had always believed that he was an innocent lamb, regardless of his suspension from school multiple times and a few serious warnings from the local police. Ben had been angry back then, and while he’d loved Sofia heart and soul, he wouldn’t have made a good husband or father. He could see that, and the most painful part of all of this was that he couldn’t entirely blame Sofia for making the choice that she did, even though that choice hurt him. A mother might love you no matter what you did, but a wife or a girlfriend—those were different rules to play by. And like Sofia had said, sometimes a woman just had a limit. Could he really blame her for drawing a line?
“At least Lisa didn’t know about all of this,” his mother said, her chin quivering at the memory, and he felt that old stab of guilt.
“No, Lisa should have known.”
“Just to hurt her?” his mother countered. “I think, for her, not knowing was kinder.”
“She could have made a more informed decision before marrying me,” he muttered.
Lisa had known about Sofia before they got married, and in their first year of marriage she’d stumbled across an old love letter Sofia had written him. Lisa had been hurt, not that he blamed her. She’d wanted to know why he kept it still, and while she’d never made any demands, he knew what he should have done—thrown it away. But he couldn’t. So he’d stashed it in the bottom of a drawer and felt uncomfortable all the same.
If an old letter could make Lisa feel territorial, what about a son? She’d gone through enough with him, and if she’d known that he and Sofia had a child together, she might not have thought that hitching her wagon to him was worth it. He certainly wouldn’t have blamed her.
“Grab me the milk,” his mother said, and Ben fetched the carton of milk from the fridge and passed it to her.
“He seems to have a lot of allergies,” Ben said.
“Allergies?” She poured a slosh of milk into the pot. “That did not come from us. We Blakes may be a lot of things, but we’re healthy as horses.”
“Don’t take it so personally. Allergies are common these days.”
“He must look like you,” his mother said, shooting him a smile. “Do you have a picture?”
“He looks like Sofia to me,” he admitted. “He’s got her dark hair and big, brown eyes. But no picture. Sorry.”
His mother gave the pot of macaroni and cheese a brisk stir, then nodded toward the table. “Clear off the flyers, would you?”
Ben did as she asked, sweeping the whole lot of them into a cardboard box that sat by the table for that purpose.
“So, what took her so long to tell you?” she asked, then plunked the pot into the center of the table and turned her back on him to grab some plates.
“I don’t know. I asked that, too. She said she was trying to protect him.”
“From who?” his mother demanded, coming back with two Corningware plates in hand. “You? Me? What are we going to do but love that little boy?”
He didn’t have any more answers than she did, and he heaved a tired sigh. “I don’t think I ever met my dad’s family, either.”
“They didn’t want to meet you,” his mother replied. “But I do want to get to know Jack. I’m his grandma...granny. Nana?” She raised her eyebrows. “Do I look like a nana?”
Ben laughed in spite of himself. “That’s a little premature.”
“Eight years... That’s not premature at all,” she retorted.
Many a night, his mother had mixed up an over-boiled pot of macaroni and cheese for him, sat down across from him at this very table and listened to him talk about his day. To this day, nothing tasted better than an overcooked Kraft Dinner—not that they ever got the “good brand.”
“So, what are you going to do?” she asked, pouring a puddle of macaroni into his plate and then passing him a fork. She settled herself across from him. “Do you know?”
“I’m going to try and get to know him,” he replied. “I’m not going to let him grow up wondering if I cared.”
She nodded. “Good.”
“I just need to talk to Sofia and see if we can figure something out.”
She nodded slowly, but she didn’t say anything else. Ben imagined there wasn’t much else to be said. There was a child, but Jack had a mother who stood between him and the rest of the world, and even Shyla Blake could respect that. She’d been a single mother, too, after all.
They both picked up their forks and started to eat. His mind wasn’t on the food, though; it was on Sofia. He could still remember how it had felt when he’d gone to Sofia’s house a couple of days after their breakup, just to find her father standing behind the screen door in his bathrobe, his face haggard and his body oozing the smell of alcohol.
“You’re looking for Sofia?” he’d asked bitterly. “You’re a day too late. She and her mother left.”
“Left for where?” he’d demanded.
The older man had shrugged. “Don’t know. Just left.”
They’d stood there and stared at each other for a minute or two until the older man slowly shut the door, leaving Ben on the step, his heart suspended with shock. He’d dumped her and broken her heart, and she’d done what she had every right to do—left. She didn’t need to stick around and deal with him any longer, but he’d still hoped that he’d have a chance to say he was sorry. Was it selfish? Probably. And now she was gone, without any warning and without so much as a goodbye.
After he’d left the McCray house nine years earlier, Ben had gone back home, and his mother had made him a pot of macaroni and cheese and held him while he cried. Ben’s mother had loved him. Loved him like a rock. She’d seen the best in him when he failed to see it in himself, and every single time he sank into that kitchen chair, feeling like a failure and filled to the brim with anger at the world, she’d say the same thing.
“Benji,” his mother said, her voice pulling him back to the present.
“Yeah, Ma?”
“You’re a good man. And you’re my son. You remember that, okay?”
“Okay, Ma.”
That’s what she’d said to him every night. You’re a good boy, Benji. And you’re my boy. You remember that, okay?
She’d loved him like a rock.
* * *
Sofia didn’t believe in dieting. Having been raised by an Italian mother, she knew how to cook, and she knew how to eat, too. Her one concession was her nightly ritual on the treadmill, working off a few of the calories. And as for the few extra pounds she carried since high school, well, she embraced them along with the Italian cooking.
