A Love Left Behind

Chapter 7 - The Things We Don't Say

Chapter Seven — The Things We Don't Say

The apartment became part of our lives surprisingly quickly. It wasn't big. There was a small living room, a kitchen barely large enough for three people to stand in at the same time, two bedrooms and a tiny balcony that looked over the street. Compared with our family home, it felt almost ridiculously small.

I loved it.

Maybe because it felt different.

At Mum's house, everything had its place. At Dad's apartment, everything was quiet and organized. But at Rea's place, things somehow felt softer. There were books on the table, plants on the windowsill and little things that didn't seem to belong anywhere specific. It felt lived in.

And because I was five, I immediately decided that meant it was perfect.

Rea even gave me a small drawer for my things.

“That's mine?”

“If you want it to be.”

I put three toy cars inside. Then I took them out again because I decided they needed to be somewhere I could see them.

Rea laughed.

“You know, you don't have to move in completely.”

“I don't live here.”

“Not yet.”

I looked at her.

“Can I?”

She smiled.

“You can always come here.”

I didn't understand why those words made her so happy and sad at the same time. I only knew that I liked hearing them.

For me, the apartment wasn't complicated. It was another place where Dad was happy. Another place where Rea would be waiting. Another place where I could belong.

Chloe didn't see it that way.

She was always polite when she came over. She said thank you, she smiled when Rea asked her something and she never deliberately behaved badly.

But she never left anything there. Not a book. Not a sweater. Not even a toothbrush.

When Rea once suggested that she could keep a few things for her, Chloe shook her head.

“I don't need anything.”

“You don't have to,” Rea said gently.

Chloe smiled.

“I know.”

Then she went back to reading.

I didn't understand why that conversation felt strange.

Years later, I did.

Chloe wasn't refusing the drawer.

She was refusing the idea that this could become her home.

Dad seemed happier after the move. At least, that's what I thought.

He spent more evenings with Rea. We ate dinner together, watched television and sometimes played games.

But there were still days when he wasn't there.

Sometimes he would leave after breakfast and return late in the evening.

“Where were you?” I asked him once.

“With you.”

“But you weren't here.”

He smiled.

“I had to do something with Chloe.”

I accepted the answer.

I didn't know there was always more to it.

There were dinners I didn't know about. School events where Dad sat beside Mum. Afternoons when they played tennis together because it was easier for the children. Occasional dinners at restaurants after school performances or other family occasions.

From the outside, they still looked like a family.

And perhaps that was exactly what they wanted everyone else to believe.

Especially us.

Dad never told Rea about most of those moments.

Not because he didn't love her.

Because he did.

He knew she would be hurt if she knew how often he and Mum still slipped into the familiar routines of their old life.

So he kept quiet.

He told himself he was protecting her.

But secrets have a strange way of growing in the space between two people.

Rea noticed the gaps.

She didn't know exactly what they meant, but she noticed them.

Sometimes she would ask about something that had happened at school.

“How was Chloe's event?”

“Good.”

“Did she enjoy it?”

“Yeah.”

And that was it.

He didn't tell her that Maxime had been there. He didn't tell her that afterward they had all gone to dinner. He didn't tell her that, for a few hours, they had looked like the family they had once been.

Rea never confronted him. At least, not at first.

She was too understanding.

She knew he loved his children. She knew Maxime was still their mother. She knew that separating a family was never as simple as moving out and changing an address.

But understanding something didn't make it painless.

Sometimes, I saw her looking at Dad when she thought he wasn't watching.

There was love in her eyes.

And something else.

Uncertainty.

I didn't have a name for it then.

Now I do.

It was the beginning of doubt.

Chloe noticed things too.

She noticed that Dad laughed differently with Rea. She noticed that Damian adored her. She noticed how naturally he ran to Rea when we arrived at the apartment.

And she noticed Mum's face whenever Rea's name came up.

Mum never openly told us to hate her.

She didn't have to.

Sometimes children learn things from silence. Sometimes they learn them from a look. Sometimes from a sentence that seems harmless but stays in your head much longer than it should.

“She isn't your mother.”

That was one of the first things Mum ever said to me about Rea.

I remember looking at her.

“I know.”

Mum seemed surprised.

“You know?”

I nodded.

“I have a mum.”

She smiled, but it wasn't really a smile.

“And that's how it should stay.”

I didn't understand why.

To me, having Rea in my life didn't make Mum any less my mother.

But Chloe was older.

She understood more.

Or at least, she thought she did.

She saw Mum hurting. She saw Dad leaving. And she saw Rea becoming part of our lives.

In her mind, the pieces fit together.

If Dad loved Rea, then he couldn't love Mum in the same way.

If Rea was happy, then Mum had to be unhappy.

And if Dad had chosen another woman, someone had to be responsible.

Rea became the easiest answer.

I think that was when Chloe first began to lose the ability to see Rea simply as Rea.

She became a symbol.

A reminder of everything Chloe believed her family had lost.

One evening, Dad came to pick us up from Mum's house.

I ran outside as soon as I saw him.

“Dad!”

He caught me before I could crash into him.

“Easy.”

“I want to go to Rea's.”

“I know.”

“Can we go now?”

He smiled.

“Tonight.”

I cheered.

Chloe walked behind me more slowly.

Dad looked at her.

“You okay?”

“I'm fine.”

She got into the car without another word.

I didn't notice the way she looked back at the house. I didn't notice Mum standing at the window. And I certainly didn't understand what was happening between the adults.

All I knew was that Dad was taking us to a place where I felt safe.

For years, I believed that was enough.

Now I know that sometimes love isn't destroyed by one big betrayal.

Sometimes it is worn down by small things people don't say.

Dad thought he was protecting Rea.

Rea thought she was giving him time.

Mum thought she was protecting her children.

Chloe thought she was protecting our family.

And I was the only one who still believed there was enough room for everyone.