Recovery.

“How come we weren’t able to watch the fight last night?” JJ asked as he bopped around the kitchen. The seven year old just had too much energy. But I guess that’s just how little boys are built.

I stirred the boiling pot of pasta, vaguely hypnotized by the bubbles escaping the boiling water and disappearing into nothing more than steam, “I told you, you know I don’t like watching those things.”

“Well he won! And he talked about you! Well not really. But he said he was gonna take time off from fighting and just focus on personal things! Isn’t that what you wanted him to do?”

“Where did you hear all this?”

“I saw it on YouTube!” JJ exclaimed. At seven, he knew more about how to work an iPad than I ever would, “Duh,” he added.

I sighed. One of the heavy, loaded sighs that feels like a temporary release of all the pressure building up inside of you. “No, sweetie. That’s not what I wanted him to do, at least not exactly.”

“Papa says that Georges isn’t happy without you,” JJ settled on one of the stools on the other side of the nook, still fidgeting. “Papa says that Georges can’t focus without you. You know ‘cause all he can think about is you. Anyways, Papa said that- auntie?”

I often looked after little JJ, when his Dad, my brother, goes out of town like he did this weekend. Like he usually does when Georges fights. My brother is Georges’ strength and conditioning coach it was only natural.

It was only natural.

“Auntie?”

“I’m sorry, JJ, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“I was saying,” his voice thick with sass, “That Georges needs you! Everyone thinks he lost you know. I think he won but everyone saying he lost. That he didn’t deserve to win! He always won, when you were with him.”

“JJ,” I moved to him and wrapped my arms around him, and I rested my head on his closely cropped hair. I wish Jonathan would let JJ grow his hair out. “There’s more to life than just winning. Sometimes, you have to lose.”

“Auntie, are you okay? Are you sad, too?” He looked up at me with the trademark Chaimberg puppy dog brown eyes. “In school, we learned it’s okay to be sad sometimes. You can cry if you want to, Auntie. I won’t tell Papa. I won’t tell anyone. I promise,” Always the perceptive little boy. He stood up on the little barstool and he wrapped his arms around my neck, “I promise.” He said again, except this time it came out more like I pwhomise and I think my heart broke.

It felt like all the pressure in my chest finally exploded and a strangled sob vibrated in my throat. I kept my eyes open as long as I could because I knew the second I closed them the tears that were blurring my vision and burning my eyes would fall.



“How was he?” Jonathan asked as he sipped a mug of coffee, fresh off his flight from Vegas.

“He was good, as usual. He got a little fussy when I told him I wasn’t going to buy the fight, but he ended up watching it on YouTube anyways.”

“You didn’t watch it?”

“No,” I pressed my lips into a straight line, “You know I don’t like watching that kind of stuff.”

“But you used to-”

“That was different.”

“Of course, given the past circumstances,” Jonathan said slowly as he knew he began to tread into more sensitive topics.

“You can say it Jonathan. You can say what happened and I won’t shatter to a million pieces,” I’ve been back for almost two weeks now and everyone still treated me like a porcelain doll that was about to shatter.

“You were gone for a while Josie,” Jonathan started, “A year is a long time to not hear from someone. One minute you’re in Vegas with us and the next thing we know, Georges finds a note in the hotel room saying you’re leaving. You leave without a trace and come back divorced and with bruises and a restraining order against your abusive ex-husband. I don’t know how you expect us to react.”

“I don’t know, like I’m a person? Not like you need to handle me with kid gloves.”

“Do you realize what it was like for me? To open that door and see you there with your lip split open and a black eye? I’m your big brother. I’m supposed to protect you and I failed. You don’t- You haven’t even told anyone what happened. Or why you left. All I know is someone hurt you,” Jonathan's voice began to crack at the end, reminding of me when we were in high school and he tried to ask one of the popular girls to the dance.

I paused. The secrets bubbling inside my chest, constricting my throat. “I just- I don’t think I can say it myself.”

“I’m here when you’re ready. We all are. Georges-“

My chest tightened at the sound of his name.

“Firas, me, everyone.” Jonathan continued, “ We all want to help you. You just have to let us.”