Chapter 2: When Do You Need Me
1340 Words
Hailey's POV
“Mommy, wake up! WAKE UP!”
Giovanni’s scream ripped me out of sleep so fast I rolled off the couch. My laptop hit the floor with a hard crack, skidding away. Three days of unsaved work, gone, maybe. Pain shot through my elbow where I’d slammed into the coffee table, sharp enough to make me hiss.
“What? What’s wrong?” I scrambled up, heart pounding, already moving, already halfway down the hall before my brain caught up.
He was standing in his doorway, tears pouring down his face, his small body shaking like he couldn’t hold himself together. “I had a bad dream,” he sobbed. “The monster came back.”
The panic drained out of me, replaced by something heavier and softer. I dropped to my knees and pulled him into my arms, holding him tight. His heart was racing against my chest, fast and wild.
“You’re okay, baby,” I whispered, rocking him gently. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.” I pressed my lips to his dark curls, damp with sweat. “The monster can’t hurt you. Mommy won’t let it.”
He sniffed, clinging to me. “Promise?”
His voice was so small, so breakable, it hurt.
“I promise,” I said, and meant it with everything I had.
He held onto me like I was the only thing keeping him upright. Maybe I was. For six years, it had been just us against the world. No safety net. No backup plan. Just me and this terrifying, beautiful gift I wasn’t sure I deserved.
I lifted him up and carried him to his bed. He was getting heavy now, heavier than he used to be, my back protesting as I laid down beside him. He curled into me immediately, like it was instinct. His eyes, those unreal, violent-blue eyes that stopped strangers mid-sentence, watched me in the dark.
“Sing the star song?” he asked softly.
“Okay, baby.” I kissed his cheek. “Just once.”
My voice was wrecked from exhaustion, rough and uneven, but I sang anyway. Off-key, slow, familiar. It was the only lullaby that ever worked. The same one I’d sung the first night we were alone in that tiny apartment, when all I had was twenty dollars and a secondhand crib that barely fit in the corner.
His breathing evened out halfway through. His grip on my shirt loosened, but he didn’t let go completely.
I kept singing until I was sure he was asleep.
I stayed until I was sure he wouldn’t wake up, until his breathing fell into that steady rhythm I recognized better than my own. Then I slipped away carefully, easing the door shut, and made my way back to the living room.
3:55 a.m. The article was due by eight. Four hours to recreate whatever I’d lost and somehow make it sound polished, insightful, like I wasn’t running on fumes.
The laptop screen was cracked. Of course it was.
I stared at it for a long second, then pressed my palms against my eyes, fighting the tight burn behind them. I tried not to do the math, how much a new laptop would cost versus how much I had, versus how many groceries that would buy, versus how many meals that would take away from Gio. I failed anyway. I always did.
Breathe. Just breathe.
I’d handle it. I always did. I had to.
That’s what I’d been doing for six years. Six years of juggling freelance jobs that barely covered rent. Six years of stretching groceries, counting change at the register, pretending the cashier wasn’t watching. Six years of rotating the same worn-out clothes, washing them thin, hoping no one noticed the holes. Six years of being tired in a way sleep never fixed.
And still, six years of Gio. Six years of his laughter filling rooms that felt too small. Six years of questions that came out of nowhere, of sticky hugs and whispered secrets. Six years of being needed, of being loved, of being enough for at least one person in the world.
Most days, that was enough to make it bearable.
Tonight wasn’t one of those days.
I got Gio to kindergarten ten minutes late, which earned me another tight, judgmental look from Mrs. Griffin at the front desk. I pretended not to notice, pretended I didn’t care, even though it still stung.
“Love you, baby.” I crouched and squeezed him tight, breathing in his shampoo. It was cheap, whatever was on sale that week, but it still smelled faintly floral, clean and comforting.
“Love you more, Mommy.” He pulled back, backpack sliding off one shoulder. Then he hesitated. His little face tipped up toward mine. “Mommy, can I ask you something?”
My stomach dropped. I already knew. I always knew when that tone showed up.
“What is it, baby?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.
“Miss Carter said everyone has a daddy.” His voice was small, uncertain, and it gutted me. “Where’s mine?”
The question landed like a punch. Six years, and it still knocked the breath out of me every single time.
“You have me,” I said carefully, choosing each word. “Isn’t that enough?”
His eyes, those devastating, violent-blue eyes, studied me with a seriousness that didn’t belong on a five-year-old’s face.
“But everyone has a daddy,” he said. “Lilly has one. So does Eli. And Ella.” His voice dropped. “Why don’t I?”
Because your father chose someone else before you ever existed.
Because he married his first love five months after our divorce. Five months.
Because I wasn’t enough for him.
Because I never told him about you—and because he didn’t deserve to know.
“It’s complicated, baby,” I said, pushing the thoughts down hard. “We’ll talk about it when you’re older.”
“You always say that.” His lip trembled. “Don’t I get a daddy? Am I… am I bad?”
“No.” I grabbed his shoulders, maybe too tightly, needing him to hear me. “Gio, no. You’re perfect. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. This has nothing to do with you. Nothing. Do you hear me?”
He nodded, slowly.
But I saw the doubt settle anyway, quiet and heavy, right behind his eyes.
The teacher called his name and he ran off, And i sat in my small, dirty car after.
My phone buzzed. Probably a client chasing the article I hadn't finished. I should ignore it. Should drive straight to the library where the WiFi was free and power through the work before I lost another gig.
But the number on the screen wasn't a client.
It wasn't familiar. I answered anyway.
"Is this Hailey Ramsey?" A woman's voice.
"Yes?" I replied hesitantly.
"This Georgina Cruz from the Ramsey & Associations. I'm calling regarding Cryrus Ramsey."
My father's name hit like a ice water.
I hadn't heard from him in years. Not since the time he left.
Not since he'd proven that his image, his empire, his pristine reputation mattered more than his own daughter.
"What about him?" My voice came out flat. Dead.
"I'm very sorry to inform you that Mr. Ramsey passed away three days ago." She snapped it. "The family has requested your presence at the will reading. Friday at two PM."
My father was dead.
The man who'd abandoned my mother for his secretary when I was eight. Who'd built an empire while we'd lived in a one-bedroom apartment. Who'd sent checks twice a year like guilt could be purchased in installments.
Who'd cut me off completely the second I'd disappointed him.
Dead. I felt... nothing.
"Ms. Ramsey? Are you there?"
"I'll think about it," I said.
"The family insisted I inform you that attendance is mandatory if you wish to...."
"When do you need me?"
- Writer
