Chapter 31: Flashback to Richy's Childhood

At home I sat on the edge of my bed in the quiet apartment, staring at the crib photo Ruby sent last night. The baby—my son—had his eyes half-closed, tiny fists curled near his cheek. He looked peaceful. Innocent. Nothing like the mess that made him. My thumb hovered over the screen. Delete it? Keep it? Every time I looked, the same question came: How did I get here? How did a kid who learned to shut down feelings end up creating a life he couldn’t face?

The flashback hit me hard, like it always did when the guilt got loud. I was six again, standing in the hallway outside Mom’s bedroom door. It was late. Past my bedtime. I’d woken up thirsty and heard voices. Mom and Humphrey. Not yelling. Worse. Quiet. Cold.

“You’re never here,” Mom said. Her voice sounded tired, like she’d been crying earlier.

Humphrey grunted. “I work. Someone has to pay the bills.”

“You work and you drink and you come home and act like we’re strangers.”

I pressed my ear closer. My heart beat fast, but I didn’t move. Something in me already knew I shouldn’t be listening. That this was grown-up stuff. Dangerous stuff.

Humphrey’s boots hit the floor. “You want me gone? Say it.”

Mom didn’t answer. Just silence. Then the sound of her turning away in bed.

I backed up slowly. Bare feet are quiet on the carpet. Went back to my room and lay there staring at the ceiling. No tears. No questions the next morning. I just got up, ate cereal, and went to school. I smiled when Mom asked how I slept. Said, "Fine. That was the first time I remember choosing to shut down. Pretend. Stuff the feeling away like dirty clothes in a drawer.

By eight, I was good at it. Real good.

Flash forward in my head to the summer Robinson started coming around more. I didn’t know then that he was my real dad. I just knew he showed up with candy, laughed loud, and made Mom smile in a way Humphrey never did. One afternoon they were in the kitchen. I walked in for a drink and stopped at the door. Robbinson had his hand on Mom’s waist. She leaned into him for a second. Then saw me.

“Richy! Want some ice cream?”

Her voice was too bright. Fake. Robbinson pulled his hand away fast, like it burned.

I nodded. Took the bowl. Ate it on the porch without saying a word. Inside, something twisted. I didn’t cry. Didn’t ask why Uncle Robinson touched Mom like that. I just felt the knot in my chest and pushed it down. Buried it. Learned early: feelings were trouble. It's better to smile, eat the ice cream, and pretend everything was normal.

That’s how I got through the years.

Humphrey’s temper got worse when I was ten. He never hit me. Not once. But he hit the table. Yelled at Mom. Snapped at Susan and Lilly when they visited. I watched them flinch. Saw the bruises they tried to hide under long sleeves in summer. I knew something was wrong. Felt it in my gut. But I never asked. Never told. Just stayed in my room with headphones on, playing video games until the yelling stopped.

One night after a big fight, Mom came to my door. Eyes red. “You okay, baby?”

“Yeah,” I said. Kept playing the game. Didn’t look up.

She stood there a second longer. Then left. I felt bad for half a second. Then pushed that away too. Feelings were dangerous. They made things messy. Better to stay numb. Keep the smile. Be the easy kid.

By thirteen I was sneaking out. Small stuff at first. Late nights at the park with older boys. Smoking behind the school. Lying to Mom about where I was. She never pushed hard. “Be safe,” she’d say. That was it. No real questions. No real rules. Humphrey didn’t care as long as I didn’t bother him.

The first girl I kissed was fourteen. Sarah from down the street. We made out in her basement. I felt nothing. Just the thrill of doing something secret. When she said “I like you,” I shrugged. “Cool.” Blocked her number the next week when she texted too much. No guilt. No explanation. Just a clean break. Easy.

That pattern started early. Stiff the feelings. Take what feels good. Walk away before it gets heavy.

Now, years later, I see it clearly. That little boy who heard his parents fighting and chose silence grew into the man who blocked Tonia without a word. The kid who watched Susan and Lilly flinch grew into the guy who ignored the bruises on their arms. The teenager who learned to lie grew into the one who snuck into Ruby’s bed while her husband slept downstairs.

The affair with Ruby wasn’t sudden. It was the same muscle I’d built since childhood. Push down the wrong one. Chase the rush. Pretend it’s fine.

I stared at the crib photo again. My son. He had my eyes. My chin. My blood. And I was doing the same thing—hesitating, pulling back, scared to feel it all.

I set the phone down. Stood up. Walked to the window. The street was quiet. Rain starting again.

The cycle tried to pull me back in. Guilt tried to choke me. But for the first time, I saw it for what it was. Not destiny. Just a habit I learned too young.

I picked the phone back up. Opened Ruby’s last text.

“The baby has your eyes. Come see him... or don’t.”

My thumb hovered,ididn’t delete it this time,I just closed the screen.

The choice is still mine. The skin is still tight,but maybe thinner than yesterday.