by Claire Adams
A stack of pancakes and plate of bacon waited on the dining table as Lacey stood in the kitchen and prepared dinner using a crock pot and a pile of chicken breasts.
“Sending your spawn to wake me up? That’s low, Lacey,” I said and plopped down on the couch in the living room and pulled the small throw blanket across my lap.
“Getting your kids to do your dirty work is the best part of having them,” she called from the kitchen. “You’ll learn one day.”
“No, thank you.” I unlocked my phone and scrolled through my social media, barely reading the headlines of sensationalized news articles before flipping to the next one. “This world doesn’t need any more children,” I mumbled.
“What was that?” Lacey brought over a plate of freshly cooked pancakes and sat it on the table. Soft butter was slowly melting off the sides, and the fluffy cakes were bathed in a generous amount of sticky maple syrup. My stomach growled. “Are you nervous?”
“About what? My new job on Monday?” I cut into the pancakes and savored each delicious bite. “Not nervous. Excited. I’m just a lower cook, but it shouldn’t be too hard to move up the ladder. I’ll be head chef soon enough.” I’d already decided that the job was mine and my determination would pay off in the end.
“And then you’ll have time to find a man?” Lacey asked as Belle ran toward me. Her red curls bounced as she jumped on the couch and started pulling my arm.
“There’s toys in my room! Come play with me, please,” Belle yelled, and Lacey picked her up and sat her on the other side of the couch.
“Don’t crowd your auntie, and calm down. We’re having a conversation.” My sister’s tone told me I wasn’t the only one growing weary from Belle. She was full of energy, and I wondered if it was all the maple syrup. Lacey plopped down between us.
“I’ll have less time for men when I’m head chef,” I said. “Plus, I don’t want to find a man.” Just the idea made me roll my eyes. Why did it seem like finding a husband was more important than graduating?
“It doesn’t matter what you want.” Lacey struggled as Belle attempted to climb over her lap to get to me. “It just happens. Like I just so happened to run into this really good-looking guy while dropping Lacey off at daycare the other day. And he just so happened to ask for my number.” A sly smile spread across her lips.
“You know I hate bringing this up, Lace, but look at every woman in this family. What do they have in common?”
“Other than red hair and skin that burns too easily?” Lacey’s brow rose and then she giggled.
“Divorce.” I sighed. “I am literally the only woman in the family who isn’t divorced. You’re the only one who hasn’t been divorced twice. You might want to mention that to this new guy of yours.”
Lacey laughed. “I guess that’s something to be proud of.”
“It really isn’t,” I mumbled. “I don’t want that for myself. What’s the point in falling in love if it’s so easily broken?”
Our own father left Mom when Lacey was six. I barely remember him, just the faint memory of his cologne and how his dark hair stood up like a cockatoo in the early mornings. Mom was alone for barely a year before she met our stepfather, Greg, who ended up being an abusive asshole who cheated on her every weekend. He lasted a year. And then there was Mason, the last stepdad, who promised Mom the world and left her with herpes and debt. Our home was broken, and because of it, I too felt broken. I didn’t trust men not to ruin my life or leave me again.
“Because you’re left with something amazing.” Lacey smiled at Belle, who even I had to admit was being annoyingly cute as she snuck beneath our legs to steal the rest of my pancakes.
“Another kid growing up in a broken home,” I said, and immediately knew I had gone too far as Lacey tensed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. Belle is lucky; she has a family who loves her. And a mom who has time to raise her. But I don’t have that time; I have a career to focus on.”
“Is your career enough to make you happy?” Lacey asked. I considered that for a moment. Would years of running around a hot kitchen, blending ingredients and creating new recipes for people to try and critique, and yelling at the inexperienced cooks as they struggle to even boil the appropriate amount of water, make me happy? Yes, I realized. It would. Lacey shook her head and sighed.
“How about I make you some lunch?” I offered and set my plate in the sink.
“I did barely get a bite out of those pancakes.” Lacey admitted. I searched through the kitchen until I had all the ingredients for two chickpea sunflower sandwiches. I sliced through tomatoes, chopped up lettuce, and toasted sunflowers as Belle prepared the plates. She absolutely loved helping me cook, though it’d cost quite a few shattered dishes.
“Where are your chips?” I asked as I dug through a pantry.
“Damn it; I forgot to buy some.” Lacey’s phone began to ring.
“It’s okay; I can oven-roast some squash and make butternut chips.” I started prepping the oven, adjusting the racks and setting the temp and timers.
“Hey, Mom,” Lacey said, and I cursed. “Yeah. No. Sorry, I meant to call you back. Oh, you called her as well?” Lacey glanced at me. “No, she’s been up all morning.” I sighed and mouthed a ‘thanks.’ “Did you still want to talk to her?” Lacey asked Mom, and I shook my head and frantically waved my arms.
“No!” I whispered roughly, but Lacey smiled.
“Yeah, she’s right here. Here you go.”
I groaned and accepted the phone. Lacey, now free from the judgments of our mother, snickered at me as I turned toward the oven, wondering if my sister would fit if I took out the racks.
I covered the phone with a hand. “Don’t piss off the person making your food,” I said, and uncovered the phone. “Hello?” I answered as if I had no idea who was on the other line.
“I thought you started working already?” Mom asked. She clearly had no interest in small talk; going right for my jugular.
“I told you a million times, it starts Monday,” I said, while I sliced butternut squash.
“So what have you been doing this weekend?” she asked, and I glared at Lacey.
“I don’t know, Mom. Cooking? Getting ready for a job that starts in two days?” Lacey chuckled as she left the kitchen. “I had to get my uniform ready. I do have a life and things to do, Mother.”
“How much money are paying on your loans?” she asked, and I sat the knife down. I didn’t trust myself not to throw it. “If you’re only paying the minimum due, it won’t be paid off in your lifetime. You need to go to a financial adviser and see what they suggest. Maybe double or triple the amounts, whenever you get a real job.”
“This is a real job.” I raked my hand through my hair and let out a long breath of frustration. “Like, as in it’s an actual job that pays steadily.”
“You know what I meant,” Mom said. Her voice was so strained, I waited for a vocal cord to snap.
“Actually, I don’t,” I said, but she ignored me.
“Just because you’re not paying your sister rent doesn’t mean you can live there forever. You need a real job so you can pay your loans and get your own place. Poor Belle is going to think you’re her older sister.” I could hear another woman speaking in the background, asking Mom if she wanted a dark red or regular red. I wondered if she was getting her nails painted or her gray roots dyed.
“Are you getting a pedicure?” I asked. “And I’m pretty sure Belle knows I’m her aunt. She’s not that young, and she calls me Auntie.”
“Yes, I’m getting a pedicure. You won’t be able to afford one for a long time, though,” she said, and I smashed my forehead against the steel microwave. “But make sure you keep clipping your toenails anyway, and maybe try to find a brand of polish that won’t wash off with those awful shoes you insist on wearing.”
Lacey walked by the kitchen with a laundry hamper in her arms. I flipped her off as Mom continued her tirade against my entire wardrobe. Lacey smiled sweetly.
She’d had her fair share of the same type of phone calls when she was my age, and I couldn’t imagine the calls the woman had given her during her divorce. I had no doubt that she hadn’t been as understanding as any other normal mother who’d gone through the same thing.
At least I’d never have a chance to be a horrible mother.
Chapter Five
2 Years Later
Maddox
For the first time in months, I woke up to my own alarm instead of the warning screeches of a t3-year-old toddler preparing to jump on my bed. It was quiet, and I glanced at my phone to confirm that it was in fact time to get up.
But I hadn’t had the chance to sleep in for so long, and the plush comforter was swallowing my body and whispering promises into my ears of warmth and sleep. My muscles sunk into the bed, and I almost allowed myself to be pulled in, until a very funny thought crossed my mind.
The bed was too empty. And my house too quiet.
With a groan, I pushed myself out of the bed and walked down the hall from my room. The door was open, and I tried remembering if I left it open or if she did.
“Kiddo,” I said as I entered the room. “What’s the point of having you around if you’re not going to wake me up?”
A figure rolled up in a tight blanket moaned in her blue bed bedazzled with real diamonds and way too much glitter. My mother had gone a little crazy with the whole grandmother role.
“Hey, kiddo? Are you awake?” I said again and sat on the edge of the bed. A soft, blonde curl lay across a pillow, and as the figure moved, more curls fell alongside it.
“Not yet,” a whiny voice cried. I laughed. Seemed like we had something in common.
“Abby?” I asked and got no reply. Her bed was big enough for both of us to lie side by side, or her dangling across my chest and off the bed. I scooted in close and nestled beneath the blankets. “Oh, Abby,” I whispered. “I see you in there. How about you come out and make my day brighter.”
A light blue eye peeked out from a set of thick eyelashes, and her rosy cheeks failed at hiding a smile, but she stayed still, and the eye closed.
“You’re still sleeping, huh?” I said, and as confirmation she made a loud snoring noise. “Oh, too bad, because if you weren’t sleeping, I wouldn’t have to do this!” I yelled and furiously tickled her.
Abby, my wonderful 3-year-old daughter who often claimed that tickling betrayed her sense of trust—thanks Nick, for teaching her that phrase—exploded with laughter and desperately tried to escape my hands.
“Now you’re awake?” I asked as we both settled down.
“Yes, Daddy.” She playfully slapped my hand. “With my lack of trust.”
“You don’t know what that means,” I reminded her, but she loved to repeat it.
“Is today a fundraiser?” she asked, not for the first time. She’d been going on and on about getting to go to the event and had even begged me to let her choose what she got to wear.
“Yes, Abby. Today’s the fundraiser. Are you excited to go with me?” I was thrilled when my name appeared on the donor list of the Children’s Jump for the Sky event, a local fundraiser that raised money for public schools. It wasn’t that I didn’t donate to my fair share of charities, but it’s nice to be asked. The best part was seeing Abby’s face light up when I asked her to come along.
“I get to dress up!” she squealed. “With glitter, and rhinestones, and diamonds, and lipstick.” She just loved repeating every single word she heard. “Daddy, where’s your lipstick?”
“Stop listening to everything Uncle Nick says,” I said. “And I don’t have lipstick. Plus, you’re way too young for that, and you don’t need it. You’re beautiful without it. Now, get dressed so we can go to the fundraiser.”
“Is Uncle Nick there?” she asked as she ran into her walk-in closet. I wondered often if maybe it was a bit much for a toddler, but she loved her closet.
“We’re picking him up at his house,” I said. “I’m going to get your breakfast ready; meet me downstairs when you’re done.”
“Mushroom and onion omelet?” she asked, hope blossoming in her voice. “Is it a mushroom and onion omelet?”
I smiled. Any other child would literally run from an omelet with mushrooms and onions in it, but my Abby loved them. It helped that Nick had told her that’s what all the Disney princesses eat.
“And spinach,” I added and left, chuckling as she screamed with excitement and rushed to get the rest of her clothes on. It didn’t take much to please her.
I plated her breakfast and waited next to the marble table. Abby bounced down the stairs in a bright pink shirt made of satin, and a blue wool skirt. “How do I look, Daddy?” She reached the bottom of the stairs and twirled in circles.
It didn’t match, that much was obvious, but I wasn’t about to discourage her creativity or damage her spirit; besides, I didn’t know anything about fashion, either. “You look beautiful, darling. You’ll be the prettiest girl there.” I pulled out her chair and she climbed in, struggling in the wool skirt, but finally getting herself righted in the chair so she could see her omelet. She picked up her fork and I watched as she took the first bite and gave me a thumbs up.
After she’d finished her breakfast, we left holding hands. “Does Uncle Nick have lipstick?” Abby asked swinging our arms as we walked to Nick’s house.
I contemplated the question. “None that you’d want to use,” I said, and made her promise that she wasn’t going to slather paint on her lips.
She looked up at me with narrowed lids, her chin lifted and set in a way that made me wonder what she was thinking. Finally, she found her question. “How many people are going to be there?”
“Lots of people, I don’t know the exact number, but hundreds.”
Before I could take another breath, she asked another. “What is it for?”
I glanced down to find her staring at her feet as she walked. “A charity for children and schools.”
“I’m going to go to school soon, Daddy. Do you know everyone there?”
The questions came faster than I could answer, and I did my best. “Do I know anyone where?”
“Where is it? The fundraiser, Daddy.”
“I might know a few people.” I was sure I was a question or two behind on my answers, but luckily, we approached the steps to Nick’s door.
She’d managed to squeeze a couple more questions in on me, and I answered each one as we waited for Nick to answer the door.
I heard his heavy footsteps approaching, and then the door swung open.
“Do you have lipstick?” Abby shouted as he appeared. His hair was cut a little shorter than normal, but still fell over his ears, and he wore a tailored black and gray suit that was cut against his tall form.
He glanced at me with a puzzled expression, and I shrugged. “None that you’d want to use,” he joked and picked Abby up. It was amazing how much the two of us thought alike. Abby squealed and hugged his neck, giggling as he tickled her sides.
“You’re betraying my sense of trust, Uncle Nick!” she screamed over and over until Nick eventually sat her back down.
“Thanks for that, by the way,” I said. “You know 3-year-olds repeat literally everything they hear.” It wasn’t the worst thing she’d repeated from Nick, and I’d had to have a talk with her about a few of the words.
Nick scratched his neck as Abby held onto his other hand.
“I didn’t know she eavesdrops on me from her window,” he admitted, “But hey, I told Kelly to keep it quiet next time.”
“Uncle Nick, will you sit next to me?” Abby pulled on his sleeve and gave him the same wide eyes that she often used on me. They were irresistible. He kneeled in front of her.
He released a long breath, content to give into her, a slave to her charm. “Of course; there’s nowhere else I’d rather sit.”
I checked my watch and urged them to follow as we settled into my new car, an Alfa Romeo Giuilia. Nick always took a deep breath as he
entered my car and had once admitted that he couldn’t get enough of the way it smelled. I’d teased him and told him that was my cologne, but he hadn’t laughed.
“We’ll get there about 15 minutes before the fundraiser starts,” I said, and Abby cheered.
“Uncle Nick, don’t forget, you’re sitting next to me!” she reminded him, and Nick smiled.
Parking at the fundraiser was a nightmare, which is why both Nick and I chuckled as we pulled straight into the VIP line and waited no more than a minute before an attendant took my keys and parked for me. The Children’s Foundation was a building in the middle of downtown, with foot traffic from every direction. It was sleek and clean, with portraits of poorly drawn imaginary creatures hanging on every wall. Nick and Abby spent a moment critiquing them until I pointed out that the names scribbled into the corners were of children in foster care.
“Don’t repeat anything I just said,” Nick told Abby, who nodded. But Nick and I both knew we’d have to keep an eye on her. She was liable to strike up the very same conversation inside the event with a stranger. My little girl never had met one, and I’d had the ‘don’t talk to strangers’ speech with her on several occasions, each time explaining the definition.
Our table was toward the middle of the floor, and I was thankful that the guests beside us weren’t strangers. No forced, awkward conversations, at least. Maria, a wealthy startup owner, asked Abby about her hobbies, while her husband, Charles, asked me about my latest car. We bonded over the Giuilia as food arrived, and the music hushed down until a woman dressed in a smooth black dress took the stage. She began reading the names of donors to the foundation, and I was particularly happy that she wasn’t specifically mentioning the amount of the donations. I’d had that happen before, and it had embarrassed me so badly it was months before I’d attended another event. But they were all for a good cause, and I never minded opening my wallet for any one of them.
“You probably donated more than everyone else combined,” Nick leaned over and said next to my ear. I shrugged as the woman said my name. I probably did, but I didn’t want to have that conversation at any time or place.