CHAPTER 7 — Thresholds
It was a rainy Friday when the plumbing in Mara’s house gave out. The kitchen floor was an inch deep in water by the time Damien arrived. He hadn’t asked questions; he had just driven over when she called, panicked, because the emergency plumber wouldn’t arrive until morning.
For four hours, Damien worked under the sink with a wrench he now knew how to use. Mara worked alongside him, mopping up the overflow, her hair damp, her jeans soaked at the knees. They worked in a strange, synchronized rhythm. The kind of rhythm they used to have before the money and the madness took over.
By midnight, the leak was stopped. They sat on the kitchen counter, exhausted, sharing a single sleeve of stale crackers. The boys were fast asleep upstairs.
“Thank you,” Mara said. Her voice was quiet, stripped of the defensive armor she usually wore. “You don’t have to thank me,” Damien said. “It’s my job. As their father.” “It’s a new job for you.” “I’m on probation,” he smiled faintly. “I know.”
May you like
Mara looked down at her hands. “Noah told me about the bicycle. He said you listened to him.” Damien paused. “He’s smart, Mara. So much smarter than I was at his age.” “He’s like you,” she said. Then she looked up, her eyes steady. “The good parts of you. Before you let your mother tell you who you were.”
Damien felt a tightening in his throat. He reached out, his hand stopping an inch away from hers on the counter. An unspoken question. Mara looked at his hand. She didn’t move away. But she didn't take it either. “Not yet,” she whispered. Damien nodded, withdrawing his hand. “Not yet,” he agreed. “But I’m still here.”
