Chapter 11 - Ghost in the Mirror
That night, after Leo had fallen asleep in his crib beneath a hand-painted mural of lighthouses, Mark sat on the back deck watching the dark ocean. A bottle of beer sat untouched on the railing beside him.
Amy brought out a wool blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders before sitting beside him on the wooden bench.
"Are you mourning?" she asked gently.
Mark stayed quiet for several minutes, watching the white crests of waves break against the sandbars in the distance. "I'm mourning the mother I wanted, I think. Not the one who was here today."
He turned the cold bottle in his hands. "When I was seven, I fell out of an oak tree in our backyard and broke my collarbone. I remember walking into the parlor crying, holding my arm. She had friends over for tea. The first thing she said to me wasn't 'Are you okay?' It was, 'Don't drip blood on the Persian rug, Mark; go through the back kitchen.'"
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A single tear rolled down his cheek, which he wiped away without shame. "I spent thirty years thinking that if I just achieved enough, if I became successful enough, she would finally look at me and see her son instead of an accessory."
Amy rested her head on his shoulder. "She can't see what she doesn't have the eyes for, Mark. But we see you. Leo sees you."
