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When Steven was born, Elena thought his cry sounded almost apologetic. Not weak, just hesitant, like the world had startled him. She remembered blinking at the hospital light, thinking that her son looked unfinished, too soft, his skin almost translucent where it folded at his wrists. Richard had smiled only once, when the doctor announced, it’s a boy. Then he’d gone out to make a phone call.
Steven had a head full of hair already. Elena was a bit upset that it was very dark. She had hoped he’d look like Richard.
Not that she thought herself ugly, that wasn’t it at all. But her features are soft. Feminine. Hopefully he grows to have Richard’s.
At first, motherhood made her giddy. She sang to him in Italian without thinking, old lullabies her mother had hummed while hanging laundry. Richard teased her about the words. “You’re going to make him bilingual before he can walk,” he said, but his tone was fond then. She laughed and said, “Wouldn’t that be lovely?”
The house they’d bought was too large for three people, and in the early mornings, it sounded empty no matter where she stood. She carried Steven from room to room just to fill the silence with footsteps.
Sometimes she called her mother while he napped. “He smiles at everything,” Elena would say into the phone. “He has your eyes, Mamma.”
Her mother answered in a rush of warmth, questions tumbling one over another, was he eating enough, did he sleep through the night, had Elena found the right olive oil in Indiana of all places? The calls ended with ti voglio bene, and Elena would sit for a moment staring at the kitchen wall, listening to the dial tone.
By the time Steven turned two, Richard had grown busier. Clients started to come to dinner; she practiced restraint. He liked the table formal, the house spotless. “It’s important to look put together,” he had said.
One evening, Steven toddled into the dining room while Richard poured wine for a guest. The boy pointed at the bottle and said, “Vino!” proud and loud. The guest laughed. Richard did not.
Afterward he told her, quietly but firmly, “You shouldn’t confuse him with that foreign nonsense.”
She said, “It’s not nonsense. It’s family.”
“Your family,” he corrected. “He’s a Harrington.”
It wasn’t a fight, exactly. She continued the Italian because what was he going to do? Stop her?
When Steven was four, Richard hired a nanny. “You need a break,” he told her, and kissed the top of her head. “You’ve done wonderfully. But you should rest. Go out, see people.”
He said it kindly, and she wanted to believe it was kindness. The nanny, a young woman named Miss Hannah, arrived every morning in pressed skirts and smelled faintly of powder. Steven loved her immediately, children often loved the steady and predictable.
Elena hated her. Steven talked about her all damn day when she’d come back from a drink with an old friend or two.
Steven at six was all knees and motion, always running down hallways, shouting ‘mom!’ with a voice that made her wince. He still looked like her, too much like her. When neighbors commented on it, she smiled politely. All she thought was, “Poor boy.” Everyone called him pretty or beautiful.
Richard buzzed his hair after he heard it one too many times. Steven hated it.
One afternoon, she heard him whispering to himself, and she realized it was Italian.
Richard heard, too. “You should tell him to stop that,” he said.
She didn’t.
Richard hit Steven the first time when he was eight. Elena had gasped. She doesn’t even remember what it was for, but Steven had cried and cried until Richard grabbed his wrist and brought him into his study.
She never found out what was said in there. What was done. Only that when they came out, Steven’s face was pale and dry.
Richard didn’t hit him again. Or maybe he just never did it where she could see. Not until much later.
After that, Steven didn’t really cry anymore.
By ten, Steven was spending most of his days with the nanny or at school. Richard traveled more. The house seemed to belong to the sound of clocks and her wine pouring into another glass.
When the phone rang one evening, she knew by instinct it was someone from before, maybe her sister. Richard answered. His voice was calm, clipped. “No, I think you have the wrong number,” he said, and hung up.
Elena didn’t ask. She went upstairs to check on Steven. He was reading in bed, lips moving over the words. The lamplight made his face luminous, fragile. For a moment she felt something ache inside her.
“Time for bed, amore mio,” she said.
He smiled sleepily. “What’s that mean again?”
“It means ‘my love.’”
He nodded, already drifting. She stood there until his breathing steadied, then turned off the light.
Downstairs, Richard poured himself a drink. “You were speaking Italian again,” he said without looking up.
“I didn’t notice,” she answered.
And she truly hadn’t.
It happened quietly, the way most things end. They fizzle out.
A perfume that wasn’t hers. A faint, flowery scent clinging to Richard’s shirts, out of place against the aftershave she knew by heart. At first, she didn’t question it. Maybe a secretary’s perfume. Maybe a client’s wife, too affectionate with her goodbyes. There were always explanations if one looked hard enough.
But the small details gathered like dust, the way he started showering the moment he came home. One afternoon, she found a hotel receipt tucked into his coat pocket. Chicago. One room, two guests.
Her breath caught but did not break. She folded the paper and slipped it into her vanity drawer, under the hairbrush she no longer used. For days she said nothing.
When she finally asked, it was not a confrontation. It was almost casual. “Were you in Chicago last week?” while she poured wine into glasses neither of them wanted.
He blinked, calculating. Then, with a sigh: “It didn’t mean anything.”
She nodded. “I know.”
And somehow, she did. It meant nothing, and that’s why it hurt. Deep down Richard was just a man.
That night, she stared at the ceiling beside him, thinking of all the ways her life had collapsed without her noticing.
In the morning, he said, “Come with me next time.” His voice gentle, as if offering a gift. “You’ve been cooped up too long.”
She agreed before thinking.
The first trip was to Boston. Richard had meetings all day; she spent hours walking through unfamiliar streets, pretending to be interested in shop windows. In the evenings, they dined with his clients. She smiled when expected, drank too much wine, let herself be charmed by the simplicity of being a wife again, if only in costume.
When they returned home, Steven had grown. It startled her every time, how he changed without her. His voice a little lower, his questions more pointed.
“How long were you gone?” he asked as if he really didn’t know.
“Just a few weeks,” she said. “Did you miss me?”
He shrugged. “Miss Hannah took me to the lake.”
“That’s nice.” She touched his shoulder, unsure how much warmth to use.
The next morning she packed again.
Travel became their rhythm. Chicago, New York, Dallas. Cities blurred into each other; hotel rooms smelled of lemon polish. Richard always seemed renewed on the road, confident, animated. At dinners, he spoke of expansion and acquisitions. God, she loved him so much.
Sometimes, after too much wine, she laughed louder than she meant to, just to hear herself.
She called Steven every once in a while. Always felt a bit silly in her nice clothes going down to use the pay phone. Waiting in line was so embarrassing somehow.
Tonight, Steven didn’t answer. Miss. Hannah did.
“Home of Richard and Elena Harrington, this is Hannah. Would you like to leave a message?”
“Hello, Hannah, this is Elena.”
“Ah! Mrs. Harrington, how are you?” So cheery, she always sounded a bit judgmental to her.
“Fine. Can I speak to Steven?”
“Oooh, I just sent him to bed.”
She sits in the silence for a bit. “Well, are you going to go get him?”
“Oh, well, Steve has a big test tomorrow and really needs his sleep.”
“It’s Saturday tomorrow.”
Now it’s Hannah’s turn to go quiet. “I’m going to be honest, Mrs. Harrington.”
Elena holds in a groan. She’s a bit too drunk for this, maybe.
“Steve doesn’t want to talk to you.”
Well, that just can’t be true.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Harrington, but he gets all sad and angry when you call and it might just be better to visit more often.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Mrs. Harrington, I care-“
She hangs up.
When Richard asked, “Everything alright?”
“You should fire Miss Hannah.”
Steven was twelve by now. He can take care of himself.
Steven didn’t make much of a fuss when they arrived. If anything, he seemed nervous, polite in the way children learn to be when they no longer know what’s expected of them. The house was spotless, as always, which was pleasant and faintly disquieting.
Richard gave him a card for his birthday. Not much of a gift. He needed the card, but Steven thanked him anyway, and Elena smiled as if it were enough.
She told herself she would reconnect this time. She’d cook for him, ask about school, remind him that she was still his mother. But the house was too large for conversation; her words scattered in the high ceilings and long halls. And he’d grown wary of her questions.
Once, she stood in the doorway watching him, trying to summon the instinct she remembered, the urge to smooth his hair, kiss his forehead. But it felt performative now, like imitating someone else’s gestures.
Half awake, he mumbled, “Hi, Mom.”
“Go back to sleep,” she whispered.
The word Mom felt foreign on her skin. Had to have been last month when she heard it last? Maybe it was two months ago.
Her family had stopped writing by then. She wasn’t sure when the last letter came; perhaps it was still unopened somewhere in a drawer.
Richard was attentive again. The cheating, if it continued, became something unspoken, living quietly between them. He bought her a million gifts on their travels: scarves, bracelets, a bottle of Italian wine she pretended not to recognize.
“You’re happier, aren’t you?” he asked once.
She smiled. “Of course.”
And it was kind of true. Happiness wasn’t the word, but there was relief in movement, in never being still long enough to think.
There’s a vicious guilt that gnaws on her when she hasn’t seen Steven in a while. Down to her bones.
This is the longest they have stayed away, six months and even then she’s unsure. They left sometime around August, missing Steven’s 17th birthday, and every major holiday.
They’re usually there for Christmas for their annual party, but one of Richard’s partners wanted to host in New York. Who can say no to a stay in New York?
When they return in February, Steven is different. There’s a wild look in his eye that she recognizes as…traumatized.
Richard doesn’t notice, or he doesn’t care.
They have dinner. Steven jumps at every question, stares at the front door like someone else will enter, keeps turning back to look at the sliding glass door.
“How’s English coming?”
“Fine,” Steven replies to Richard’s question, looking down at his food, barely eating any.
“Fine?” The older man raises an eyebrow.
“Good,” He corrects, “Nance is helping.”
“Nance?” Elena finally speaks.
“My girlfriend.”
Richard glances up but otherwise says nothing.
“Oh?” Elena smiles, “Will you bring her around some time?”
“I bring her here all the time.”
She watches his expression flash with anger, it’s quick and it makes her smile falter, but she quickly recovers. “I see.”
“Watch your tone,” Richard says, cutting his food harder than necessary.
“Sorry.”
Later that night, she enters his room with a soft knock. He has the lights on, sitting on top of the covers.
“It’s getting late,” she says, sitting on the edge of his bed, but not touching him. Mostly because he’s watching her hands.
“Can’t sleep.” His eyes are looking straight through her.
“Steven…” They focus on her, finally looking at her face. “Are you alright?”
His face does a funny thing, scrunches up, relaxes, and then he looks away, and she wonders if he’ll cry.
“I’m alright.”
They came back two more times that year. Once a little after Easter, Steven stayed in his room, sick.
The second was a little after the start of November.
A few unsavory messages were left with Richard’s secretary by Chief Hopper. In summary, Steven was in the hospital and was staying overnight to monitor a mild concussion.
She tried convincing Richard to come with her, but to no avail.
“He’s not going to die, Elena.”
So she doesn’t visit.
They do arrive after his graduation though. An uncomfortable conversation about rejection letters and summer jobs follows.
Steven has a faint scar on his nose and chin. She almost doesn’t notice it, more focused on the scratch on his cheek from her husband’s wedding ring.
Richard has left to his study, leaving Steven and Elena in silence.
She’s surprised her son hasn’t left. He seems busy staring into the plate of untouched food.
“Steven?”
His head jerks up, “Yes?”
“Are you alright?”
This time his face doesn’t do anything funny. He smiles, it looks wrong, sure, but nothing is funny about it. “Yes.”
Her son is going to die. That is the first thing she thinks when she sees him. That stupid summer job has killed her boy.
She grabs his chart on the bottom of the bed, and distantly hears her husband shouting at one of those government officials to tell him ‘what the hell is going on’.
-punctured lung
-fractured third and fourth ribs
-broken nasal bones
-broken index and ring finger
-fractured jaw
-grade 2 concussion
Elena covers her mouth. She feels sick.
Richard enters the room again, “He’s a hero or something, saved a bunch of kids from the fire.”
She looks at her husband, feels the tears stream down her cheeks.
“He’s going to live, Elena.” Despite his harsh tone, he gently pulls her into a hug.
They stay for an hour tops. Richard rubs her back and says, “We should get going. You can leave a message for him at the house.”
“Okay.”
Richard wants to cut Steven off. Wants to kick him out. Elena understands to a degree. Steven is twenty and all he’s managed to do for them is rack up medical bills (that don’t make a dent in his wallet mind you), and get a job at a video store and then some radio station. Apparently, Hawkins split in two.
They called and the house was fine.
“We aren’t ever there, dear,” She says. They’ve had a separate condominium in Chicago for two years now.
“He rejected all my offers!” He rants, walking back and forth in the living room. “He’s ungrateful! He-”
“He has a job,” Elena says, taking a sip of wine, “Just give him a different card, the one linked to his college fund.” She examines her nails, trying to act like she doesn’t care.
“That’s not the point.”
“He’s had three concussions, Richard,” She replies, “I don’t think he’s climbing the corporate ladder, but he’s still a Harrington. Maybe someday, he’ll have a son that’s willing to take over.”
He stares at her for a moment. “Okay.”
She wonders if this gets her any mom points. Elena knows she’s not coming close in any ‘mother of the year’ awards.
She’s been neglectful. Selfish. Elena is a drunk. But she wasn’t a bad mother, or at least, she doesn’t think so. She was insufficient, sure. But she wasn’t bad.
Elena loves Steven. She wonders if that was enough. It has to be because otherwise it means that she failed. Steven is too good for her to have failed.
She wonders if her fighting with Richard makes it all worth it. The missed birthdays or Christmases (to be fair, there were always presents) were worth it.
Elena wondered if that college fund makes them even. As if it’ll make up for everything she wasn’t there for. Or if he’ll even use it.