Chapter 146 up
“I want Nyla.”
The words landed softly, without rebellion, without tears—spoken with the simple certainty Evan had begun to carry in his voice.
Clark froze mid-motion, one hand still hovering near Evan’s shoulder. They were standing at the doorway of the guest room, the evening light stretched thin across the carpet. Clark had been explaining, gently, carefully, that tonight Evan would stay with him. That it was their time. That fathers and sons needed time.
Evan didn’t argue.
He just looked past Clark, toward the hallway where Nyla’s footsteps had faded moments ago.
“I want Nyla,” he repeated.
The second time hurt more.
Clark lowered his hand slowly. “Evan,” he said, keeping his voice even, “you’re with me tonight.”
Evan nodded, accepting the statement without resistance. But his fingers tightened around the hem of his shirt, a small gesture that didn’t escape notice.
“I know,” he said. “But I want her to stay too.”
Clark felt something twist inside his chest—not anger, not jealousy exactly, but a hollowing realization. Evan wasn’t choosing out of defiance.
He was choosing out of need.
Across the hall, Nyla paused. She hadn’t meant to listen. She had been halfway down the stairs when Evan’s voice reached her, clear and unfiltered. She turned slowly, her hand gripping the banister.
She waited.
Clark glanced toward her, then back at Evan. “Why?” he asked, softer now. “Why do you want her here?”
Evan considered the question seriously, as if it deserved thought. He wasn’t frightened. He wasn’t confused.
“I feel calm,” he said finally. “When she’s here.”
The answer was simple.
It was devastating.
That night, Evan refused to fall asleep until Nyla sat beside the bed.
Clark stood at the doorway, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a silence that grew heavier by the minute. Nyla sat on the edge of the mattress, not touching Evan at first, respecting a boundary she hadn’t drawn but instinctively honored.
Evan shifted closer anyway.
His small body leaned toward her warmth, his head resting against her side as if he’d done it a thousand times before. His breathing slowed almost immediately, the tension that had lingered in his shoulders easing.
Nyla’s breath caught.
She lifted her hand, hesitated, then rested it lightly on Evan’s back.
The reaction was instant.
Evan exhaled, long and deep, his fingers curling into the fabric of her sleeve.
Clark looked away.
He told himself it was temporary. That children went through phases. That Evan was overwhelmed by recent changes, confused by adults and schedules and emotions he couldn’t name.
But the truth pressed closer, uncomfortable and insistent.
Evan wasn’t confused.
He was responding to something real.
The next morning, the pattern continued.
Evan lingered near Nyla at breakfast, dragging his chair closer to hers without comment. When Clark suggested a walk, Evan agreed—but reached for Nyla’s hand instead.
“I’ll go,” Evan said. “If she comes.”
Clark smiled tightly. “She doesn’t have to.”
Evan looked up at him, puzzled. “But I do.”
At school, his teacher noticed it first.
“He’s more affectionate lately,” she said to Clark during pickup, glancing toward Evan, who stood a few feet away beside Nyla, holding her hand openly. “But it’s focused. He seems… selective.”
Selective.
The word followed Clark home.
The caregiver noticed too. Evan cried less when Nyla was present. Ate better. Slept faster. His nightmares—once frequent—had begun to fade.
“He asks for her,” the caregiver said carefully. “Even when he doesn’t see her.”
Clark nodded, jaw tight.
At night, alone in his study, Clark stared at old photographs—images of Evan as a baby, smiling up at him with trust that now felt fragile. Clark had told himself he was protecting Evan all those years. That stability mattered more than truth.
But stability, he was learning, could still feel unsafe.
The rejection didn’t come loudly.
It came quietly.
In the way Evan leaned away when Clark tried to hug him.
In the way Evan’s eyes searched for Nyla when he was frightened.
In the way Evan stopped asking Clark questions at bedtime—and began asking Nyla instead.
“Why do people leave?” Evan asked one night, his voice small in the dark.
Nyla stilled beside him.
“Sometimes they think they have to,” she said carefully.
Evan frowned. “Would you?”
The question pierced her.
“No,” Nyla said, her voice steady despite the ache blooming in her chest. “I wouldn’t.”
Evan nodded, satisfied.
“I know,” he said, and turned onto his side, facing her.
Clark heard about that conversation later.
It broke something open.
One afternoon, after Evan refused to stay the night with him again, Clark finally spoke.
“This isn’t fair,” he said to Nyla, his voice low but tight with strain. “You’re turning him against me.”
Nyla met his gaze without flinching. “I’m not turning him anywhere.”
“He didn’t used to act like this.”
“No,” she said quietly. “He didn’t used to feel safe enough to choose.”
Clark swallowed.
“You think I make him feel unsafe?”
“I think,” Nyla replied, choosing each word with care, “that children feel what adults refuse to say.”
Clark had no answer for that.
The breaking point came days later.
Evan had woken from a nightmare, sobbing hard enough to shake. Clark reached him first, wrapping him in his arms, murmuring reassurances.
But Evan kept crying.
“Where’s Nyla?” he whimpered.
“I’m here,” Clark said. “I’m right here.”
Evan pulled back, his small hands pressing against Clark’s chest—not pushing, but creating distance.
“I know,” Evan said through tears. “But I want her.”
Nyla appeared in the doorway moments later, drawn by the sound.
Evan reached for her immediately.
The moment her arms wrapped around him, his crying softened into hiccupping breaths, his forehead pressing against her collarbone. His body relaxed as if it had finally found the right shape to rest in.
Clark stood there, invisible.
Later, when Evan was asleep again, Clark sat alone in the living room, the house too quiet.
He pressed his palms against his eyes.
Blood meant nothing, he realized bitterly, if trust had never been allowed to grow.
The final moment came without ceremony.
They were sitting together—Nyla on the couch, Evan curled beside her with a book, Clark across the room pretending to read.
Evan looked up suddenly, his expression serious in the way children sometimes are when they stumble onto truth.
“Can I sleep with Nyla tonight?” he asked.
Clark opened his mouth to object.
Evan turned toward him before he could speak.
“I feel safe when she’s here,” Evan said simply.
The room went still.
Nyla’s heart pounded, but she didn’t speak.
Clark stared at his son.
Not with anger.
With grief.