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“You can’t afford what I offered her,” I say to my mom, who pauses a moment to stare at me with an innocence I see right through.
“The cost may be a burden, but worth every penny,” she says, watching me as she brings another bite of food to her mouth. I sense the challenge in her words and stare, but I’m going to think of a way out of this. I’m not interested in the cook that can’t listen and won’t follow directions. I’m less interested in being strong armed by my mother into a change I don’t need or want.
My mother chews thoughtfully and swallows before looking me over one more time. “Besides, you might benefit from a change in diet. Those ladies you're always chasing won't appreciate it if you get doughy.”
The insults sting, and I glance down at myself, wondering if there's something I'm not seeing because she is the second woman today to mention that maybe I'm unhealthy. Granted, the first one was the cook and I don't trust her opinion, but maybe they’re on to something.
“Well, take her home, because I’m not interested in her services.” I wave a hand at both of them; maybe they deserve one another.
“If you just try the food, you'd probably be pleasantly surprised.” The cook’s voice sounds oddly forceful, as if she’s just found her claws. “Your mother clearly has taste.”
Insulted by my own hired staff, today is certainly something.
Fine. If they want me to try the food, I'll try the food.
I settle back into my seat and take a bite of the black bean hash browns. But instead of swallowing back bile like I expected, the vial masquerade of a meal before me, I find I like the texture, and the flavors explode over my tongue in a way that’s... not unpleasant. Okay, it’s damn right delicious.
Careful not to move too fast, I take a bite of the eggs. Doctoring my expression, I keep neutral features, knowing full well they’re both watching me.
“It’s passable,” I say.
The cook’s expression shifts to surprised anger and my mother glares at me. It’s been a long time since I earned her glare, and I’m going to bask under the force of it today.
Nothing will sway me from my opinion of this “cook.” Nothing.
Chapter Three
Alisha
I close my front door and lean against the wood, vowing to leave the emotional turmoil of my day here on the threshold. The first day working for Charles was a nightmare - I hope tomorrow will be better. I'm not about to hold my breath, though, because Charles is not easy to get along with.
I can't stop thinking about that dominating gray stare of his, or how his dark hair seemed to catch every bit of light and reflect it back, or the absolutely emotionless set to his features he seemed to always have. Forget resting diva face, he has resting robot face. For an impossibly good-looking guy, he managed to bring himself down to a lukewarm attractiveness through actions and attitude alone.
I take a deep breath. These thoughts don't belong in my home and I’m not letting them stay. With another deep breath, I reach down, turn the knob, and open the door, as if physically shooing out the negative thoughts. I don’t want them here. They can leave now.
Instead, I try to divert my thoughts to my plans for the night. My heart leaps and I make my way through the kitchen with light steps. I continue down the hallway and toward her room. The door is open a crack and the pretty jellyfish night light illuminates the room. She's curled up under her jellyfish bedspread as the pale blue and green lights bathe her face in a delicate glow.
Pushing the door open slowly so it doesn't make a sound, I creep in and squat beside her bed. Her blonde curls frame her rounded face, and her lashes seem impossibly long as they fan across her cheeks. As a smile crosses my face, love fills my whole being as I realize no matter what I have to put up with in a day, she makes all the worst - and best - moments worth it. Careful not to wake her, I lean in and press a kiss to her warm cheek.
I wish she’d been awake when I got home so I could tell her goodnight and how much I love her and listen to every detail about her day.
Instead, I slip out of her room, as stealthy as a ghost. Even though it's still early, I have no doubt that my mom is also in bed sleeping in the guest room like we’d agreed.
With a heavy heart and hating how much of my daughter's life I miss by having to work, I make my way out into the living room.
My stomach grumbles, reminding me I neglected dinner in my rush home, hoping I’d get a few moments with my daughter. I wander into the living room, then into the kitchen, trying to decide if I should have some dinner. But the house is so silent and I feel completely alone.
Food doesn't sound good. The only thing that sounds good is going to bed, curling up in a ball under my blankets, and letting the hot, silent tears flow.
So with a world-weary sigh, I make my way to my room and change into my pjs.
The weight of loss crushes my chest as I smile at the pink sheep pjs my daughter bought me for Mother’s Day. They say “sheep walker” in random places and the sheep are all dressed in their own pjs. The amount of convincing it took for me to get myself to take on this new job doesn't seem worth it when I come home to a quiet house.
I miss my daughter.
That probably sounds stupid because I literally just saw her and gave her a kiss, but it's just not the same as actually spending time with her. I already feel robbed of time because she goes to preschool two days a week. Working in the super early hours of the morning until it’s time to come home and get her up seemed so perfect. But now, with the added pressure, bills and inflation, getting a second job had become necessary... and the pay that Charles had been offering was just too tempting to pass up.
I climb in bed and curl up under my heavy comforter and sheet. In the fetal position, I stare at the wall, thinking about my life. I wonder if things would have been easier if I had told her father that she exists... or if he’d have called me a liar and refused to accept her.
