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His Wife, His Mistake
Chapter Nine: The Man at the Window
POV: Liam (Age 4)
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I don't know why Mama doesn't like the man who brings me books.
She never says it out loud, but I can tell. Her voice gets tight. Her eyes get cold. She stops humming when he's near, and Mama always hums when she's happy.
I like when she hums.
I don't like when she stops.
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The first time I saw him, it was at the art fair. I was holding Mama's hand and eating ice cream that melted too fast.
He was standing by the coffee cart, looking around like he didn't belong here. Everyone else was smiling and talking, but he looked… different. Like he was searching for something.
And then he saw us.
His eyes got really wide.
Not scary wide. Just… surprised. Like he found what he'd been looking for.
Mama held my hand tighter.
Then she picked me up and walked away fast, like we were in trouble.
We weren't. But I didn't ask.
Sometimes, when Mama's quiet, it means don't talk.
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After that, I started seeing him more.
He'd sit across the street and pretend to drink coffee. Or walk past the window slowly. Sometimes, he'd just stand and stare at the flowers next door like they were magic.
But I knew he wasn't really looking at the flowers.
He was looking at me.
At us.
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One day, I was painting a tree with blue leaves (because trees can be blue if you want them to), and he walked in.
I didn't know what to say.
But he smiled at me, and I smiled back.
He sat down across from me like he'd done it a hundred times.
"What are you painting?" he asked.
"A secret tree," I whispered.
His eyebrows went up. "What kind of secret?"
I leaned in, like we were sharing something very important.
"If you sit under it, your wishes come true," I said seriously.
He smiled — not like grown-ups smile when they don't understand, but like he believed me.
"I could use a wish," he said.
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I liked talking to him.
His voice was deep, but not loud. He didn't treat me like I was small or silly. He listened.
And when I asked him if he believed in dragons, he said, "Only the kind with kind hearts."
I didn't know what that meant, but I liked the way he said it.
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Then Mama came in.
And the smile disappeared from her face like someone flipped a switch.
She looked at him like he was a bug. No — like he was something worse.
Like he broke something inside her that couldn't be fixed.
She told him to leave.
And he did.
But not before he looked at me one more time.
His eyes were shiny. Not from crying. Just… sad. Quiet sad.
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After he left, I asked, "Why don't you like the book man?"
She didn't answer.
She just knelt in front of me and said, "He's not who you think he is."
But I knew she was wrong.
Because I did know.
I knew before anyone told me.
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The way he looked at me.
The way he watched me like I was made of stars.
The way I felt when he was near — like my body already knew him, even if my brain didn't.
I had his eyes.
Mama told me once I had hers, but when I looked in the mirror, I saw something else too.
Something I didn't see in anyone else but him.
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He started coming more.
Not inside. Just outside.
He'd sit on the bench across the street while I painted by the window. He never waved, but I could tell he wanted to.
Sometimes, I'd paint extra fast just so I could run outside with a "delivery" for Miriam at the bakery and sneak a glance at him.
He'd smile.
Just a little.
And I'd smile back.
I didn't know why it felt like a secret.
I didn't know why it made my chest feel full.
But I knew that even if Mama didn't say it…
He was my daddy.
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At night, I'd ask questions without asking.
"Did you ever have someone who made you sad?"
"Can someone come back after a long time and still love you?"
"Are some wishes too big for the secret tree?"
Mama would answer carefully. She always did.
But sometimes, her eyes would go far away.
And I knew she was thinking of him.
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One afternoon, while she was cleaning brushes, I whispered, "What if I like him?"
She paused.
The sponge in her hand stopped moving.
I held my breath.
Then she said, softly, "You're allowed to like whoever you want."
"Even if you don't?"
She looked at me then. Really looked at me.
Her face was tired, but kind.
"I'm angry at him," she said. "But I'm not angry at you."
That made me feel better.
Not perfect.
But better.
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The next day, he came again.
This time, Mama didn't yell. She stepped outside with him while I watched through the window.
They didn't shout. They didn't touch.
They just talked.
I watched her shake her head. I saw him rub the back of his neck like he didn't know what to say anymore. I saw her point at me.
I couldn't hear their words, but I didn't need to.
Because even from behind glass, I could feel everything.
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That night, I drew a picture.
It was of three stick people: a woman, a man, and a boy in the middle.
They were all holding hands.
And under their feet was the blue tree with secret roots.
I didn't show Mama.
Not yet.
Maybe one day.
But for now, I folded it and hid it in my shoebox of special things.
Because even if the tree wasn't real…
I still believed in wishes.
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