Page 55 of Colt
“Knox processes differently. He moves through things—names them out loud, asks a direct question, then sets it down and goes back to whatever he was doing. He’s remarkablyhealthy, actually. He’ll be okay.” She paused. “Luca needs more time.”
I nodded. I’d known that. I’d known it for years, the way you know something about your own child without being able to say exactly how you know.
“What is he carrying?” I asked. “What do you think it is?”
Bea was quiet for a moment. “He knows more than he should about fear. Not his own—yours. He’s been monitoring your fear since before he had words for it. Waking up and checking on you. Staying between you and strangers.” She met my eyes. “He took on the job of keeping you safe. That’s a lot for a six-year-old.”
“I tried not to let them see—”
“They didn’t need to see it. They felt it.” She said it gently, not as a rebuke. “Children that age are extraordinarily sensitive to the emotional environment around them. They absorb everything. It wasn’t something you could have prevented.” She let that settle. “And it isn’t permanent. That’s the important thing. He can put it down now that things have changed. He’s already starting to.”
I exhaled slowly. Outside, through the window, a bird landed on the sill and then left. “How much does Colt being around help?” I asked. It came out more clinical than I felt.
Bea’s expression changed—just briefly. “Significantly. Both boys are grounding a lot of their sense of safety in him right now.” She watched me. “How do you feel about that?”
“I think—” I stopped. Started again. “I think it’s good. For them. He’s been consistent.”
“And for you?”
“I’m still figuring that part out.”
Bea nodded once, not pressing. That was the thing about her—she asked questions like she was opening doors and then stepped aside to let you decide whether to walk through.
“He’d like to be more present,” I said, not sure why I was saying it. “He’s careful about giving me space. But I can tell.”
“He came in yesterday like you asked,” Bea said. “To talk about the boys.”
I nodded. “I thought it made sense.” I turned my mug in my hands. “He’s with them so much now. I wanted him to hear it from you directly—what they’re working through, what helps, what doesn’t. Not filtered through me.”
“It was a good call. He listened well.” She paused. “He asked good questions.”
“About the boys?”
“Mostly.” She watched me. “He asked about you too. Whether you were sleeping. Whether the headaches had been bad.”
I hadn’t known that, but I had given Bea permission to share things about me with him if he asked.
“I told him what you’d authorized—that you were sleeping better than you had been, that the headaches were manageable.” She kept her voice neutral. “He didn’t push for more than that.”
I nodded slowly. That was the part I hadn’t been certain of—whether he’d ask Bea things he hadn’t felt able to ask me. Whether he’d use the access I’d given as a shortcut around the harder conversation.
He hadn’t.
“You seem surprised,” Bea said.
“I gave you permission because I was worried,” I admitted. “That he might—” I stopped. “My amnesia. I thought he might wonder if I was capable. As a parent. Whether the gaps meant I was missing something the boys needed.”
Bea was quiet for a moment. “Is that something you worry about yourself?”
“Sometimes.” I looked at the window. “Less than I used to.”
“He didn’t ask anything that suggested that concern. Not once.” She said it plainly. “What he asked about was you. Not your fitness. Just you.”
“I don’t know why I should be surprised,” I said finally. “He’s been exactly what everyone says he is. Consistent. Present. Patient. I keep waiting for it to stop and it doesn’t.”
“What would it mean if it didn’t stop?”
I thought about Luca. About how he’d stopped checking the hallway before he fell asleep. About Knox asking three days ago, matter-of-fact, whether Colt would be at pickup—not excited, just folding it into the structure of things.
