You, Me and Mommy

The next morning, I arrive earlier than usual. Not because I'm trying to impress Leo—I gave up on that battle long ago—but because I want to be here.

Matteo's progress last night wasn't just a small win; it was a breakthrough. If he trusts me enough to speak, then I can't let him down.

I step inside; the house is quiet as always; how big and empty it feels!

"Morning, Miss Richson," Greta, the housekeeper, greets me with a nod as she wipes down the already spotless kitchen counters. "You're early."

"Yeah," I say with a small smile. "Thought I'd get a head start on things."

She hums approvingly. "Matteo's still upstairs with his nanny, but Mr. Hayes is in the gym. If you need him."

I don't need him. At least, that's what I tell myself. But I still find my feet leading me down the hallway toward the home gym. I tell myself it's just curiosity. 

Then I hear the rhythmic thud of punches against a bag.

I stop at the doorframe, watching as Leo moves—controlled, precise, each strike landing with the kind of force that speaks of a man who's trained for battle. His shirt clings to him, damp with sweat, and I can see the muscles in his back flex with every movement.

I should walk away.

But I don't.

Instead, I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms. "Should I be concerned that you're taking out all your frustration on that poor punching bag?"

Leo doesn't stop. "You shouldn't be sneaking up on people."

"You call this sneaking?" I gesture to myself. "I'm standing in plain sight."

He finally steps back, grabbing a towel to wipe his face. His eyes meet mine, and for once, they don't look so guarded.

"Matteo's waiting for you," he says, avoiding the topic altogether.

I nod, but I don't move. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Deflect. Change the subject. Pretend like you don't care when you do."

His jaw tightens, and I think he won't answer. But then, he sighs, tossing the towel onto the bench.

"Because caring gets people hurt," he says simply.

The words settle between us, heavier than they should be. I don't push, even though I want to.

Instead, I say, "Matteo cares about you. And you haven't hurt him."

Leo looks away. "Not yet."

I don't know what he means by that, but before I can ask, Matteo's voice echoes down the hall.

"Miss Ella!"

I turn to see him running toward me, his stuffed wolf clutched in one hand. The sight of him, running to me instead of shying away, makes my chest ache in the best way.

Matteo crashes into me with surprising force for a six-year-old, wrapping his arms around my waist. My heart clenches at the way he clings to me, his small hands gripping the fabric of my sweater like he's afraid I'll disappear.

I crouch to his level, brushing his curls back gently. "Good morning, Matteo."

His eyes are bright, and for the first time, there's no hesitation in his response. "Good morning, Miss Ella."

"Did you sleep well?" I ask Matteo.

He nods. "I had a dream."

"A good one?"

"Yes." His voice drops into a whisper, like he's sharing a secret. "You were in it."

I blink, caught off guard. "Oh? What happened in this dream?"

Matteo shifts, glancing at Leo before lowering his voice even more. "We were playing music. You, me, and—" He hesitates, gripping his stuffed wolf tighter. "—Mommy."

Matteo looks up at his father, as if gauging his reaction, but Leo's face is unreadable.

"Matteo," Leo says carefully.

But Matteo doesn't shrink back. His grip on my sweater tightens. "It was just a dream," he mumbles, eyes dropping to the floor.

I don't know the full story of what happened to Matteo's mother, but I know loss when I see it. I know the weight it carries.

I also know that dreams, even the good ones, can hurt.

I squeeze Matteo's hand gently. "That sounds like a beautiful dream."

Matteo nods, though the brightness in his eyes has dimmed.

Leo clears his throat, and when I look up, his expression is back to that hard, closed-off stare. "You should start your lesson," he says, his voice clipped.

I nod, taking Matteo's hand and leading him toward the grand piano.

I need air.

The second Ella takes Matteo into the music room, I slip onto the balcony, dragging a hand through my hair. 

Matteo's dream. Her name was on his lips.

I should've known this would happen. The more comfortable he got with Ella, the more he'd start remembering.

Remembering her.

It's been years since I buried that part of my life, since I locked it away where it couldn't touch or hurt me.

But Matteo is bringing it back. And now… so is Ella.

She's getting too close to him and too close to me.

Matteo's fingers hover over the piano keys, his eyes locked onto my hands as I play a soft, steady melody. 

"Do you want to try?" I ask gently, shifting to give him space.

"You can start with just one note," I say, pressing a single key. "There's no wrong way to start."

Matteo glances at me, uncertain. Then, with a deep breath, he presses the same key.

"Good," I encourage. "Now another."

He hesitates before pressing a different key. Then another.

"Mommy used to play," Matteo said

Matteo stares at the keys, his fingers still. "She played at night when I couldn't sleep.

A weight settles in my chest. I swallow hard, my hands clenching in my lap.

Leo is silent, but the tension radiating off him is suffocating.

 "I can't remember the songs anymore," he murmurs, his lower lip trembling. "But I remember how they made me feel."

God. My heart aches for him.

I don't know what to say. But I know sometimes silence says enough.

Matteo looks back down at the piano, pressing another key. "I want to remember."

I place my hand over his, guiding his fingers gently. "Then let's help you."

His fingers curl against mine for a second before he nods.

And we play.

I grip the edge of the doorframe, my knuckles white.

Matteo hasn't spoken about her in a long time.

Not because he forgot, but because I made sure he didn't have to remember.

Not because I wanted to erase her but because I didn't know how to hold him together if he did.

And now Ella has somehow opened the locked door inside him.

I should be angry. I should be furious.

But all I feel is kind of a relief.