Sandy’s voice drifted through the half-dark of the hotel room, low and hoarse, like she’d swallowed a thousand secrets and only now decided to let one slip.

“You know what’s funny?” she said, curled against the sheets, cigarette dangling between two fingers like a forgotten promise. “Jacob thinks I’m some kind of stable parent now. PTA meetings. Vitamins in the cupboard. I even make him oatmeal in the mornings sometimes. Me.”

You stayed quiet. You’d learned that with Sandy, silence wasn’t neglect — it was an invitation.

She exhaled, smoke curling like a ghost in the air. “You ever love something so much it scared you? Not just love. Obsess. Cling. Destroy, even, because the thought of losing it made you insane?”

You nodded faintly. She didn’t look at you.

“I had another son once,” she said. “Before Jacob. His name was Joey. Bright kid. Big brown eyes. Quiet. Observant in that creepy way some kids are, y’know? Like he was always a few steps ahead of everyone else. It scared the shit outta me sometimes. But he was mine.”

She stubbed the cigarette out in the hotel ashtray like she was crushing a memory. Her voice dipped.

“I was dating this guy back then—Raphael Passero. Thought he was decent. Kind to Joey. Smart. Clean-shaven. Not like the usual junkie scum I brought home. I thought... maybe I’d finally done something right.”

She finally turned to you. Her eyes were wet but hard. Not crying — not quite — but full of something that had been kept down too long.

“Joey killed him.”

The words hung there. No drama. No tears. Just fact.

“I found him with blood on his hands and that same blank expression he always wore when he was thinking too hard. And you know what I did? I froze. I couldn’t even scream. I just... stared at him. Like maybe if I didn’t blink, it would undo itself.”

She pulled the sheet tighter around herself. “I didn’t call the cops. I couldn’t. Who was gonna believe me? A cocktail waitress with coke in her purse and bruises that didn’t have names? So I left him. Dropped him off at social services and told myself it was for the best.”

Silence.

You reached out. She flinched, but didn’t pull away.

“Jacob’s not him,” she whispered. “But sometimes I see it. The stillness. The calculation. And I wonder if I gave birth to two broken mirrors.”

Then she did look at you. No walls. No act. Just Sandy.

“I want to find him,” she said. “Joey. Or... Joe. I think he changed his name. I don’t know. Maybe it’s too late. Maybe I just want to be punished. But I need to know if he’s alive. If he hates me. If he turned into something worse.”

You watched her, her skin all freckles and faded motel tan under the flicker of a busted lamp. And you realized you didn’t see a wreck. You saw a survivor—scorched, yes, but still standing.

“I’ll help you,” you said.

Her laugh was short. “You? You’re a trust-fund lay with nice hands and a Tesla. What the hell do you know about any of this?”

You didn’t flinch. “I know people. I know how to look. I know how to protect the ones I care about.”

She went quiet again. Then softer: “Why would you even care?”

You didn’t have an answer that would make sense to her. So you kissed her shoulder instead. She didn’t stop you.

And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, Sandy let her head rest on your chest like she meant it.

“I don't know if I’m a good mother,” she whispered. “But I want to be better than I was. Help me do that, and... I don’t know. Maybe I’ll let myself believe someone can actually love me without trying to fix me.”

You didn’t tell her that was already happening.

You just held her a little tighter, and said, “We’ll find him. Together."

And as your lips brushed her forehead, for once in her life, she dated to believe.