She’d been doing that more lately. Watching June move through the kitchen, watching her interact with Lila, watching the way she filled spaces that had been empty for so long. It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t—
It wasn’t anything.
“You’re home.”
June had turned, dish towel in hand, and Melissa realized she’d been caught staring.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t.” June smiled, but it faded quickly as she studied Melissa’s face. “Long day?”
“Something like that.”
“There’s a plate in the oven. Lila helped make it—chicken and roasted vegetables. She’s very proud of her carrot-cutting skills.”
“I’m sure she is. It’s good of you to teach her.”
“It’s fun. She’s a quick study.”
Melissa moved to the oven, retrieving the plate, but she wasn’t hungry. The knot in her stomach had been there since she’d read the article, and food was the last thing she wanted. It wasn’t the article itself; it was what she knew would come in the coming weeks.
June was watching her. Melissa could feel it—that steady, assessing gaze, the same one that had unsettled her from the first day.
“Are you okay?”
The question was gentle. Non-intrusive. The kind of question that could be brushed off with a polite deflection, the way Melissa brushed off most questions about her wellbeing.
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Okay.” June didn’t push. She turned back to the dishes, giving Melissa space, and somehow that made it worse.
Melissa took the plate to the island but didn’t sit. She stood there, staring at the food, feeling the silence stretch between them.
“I’ll be in my office,” she said finally. “I know you’re technically off, but if Lila wakes up—”
“I’ll handle it, of course.”
Professional. Appropriate. Exactly what Melissa should want from the woman she was paying to care for her daughter.
So why did it sting?
She retreated to her office, closed the door, and sat in the dark without turning on the lights. The article was still pulled up on her phone. She read it again, then again, cataloging each insinuation, each carefully planted seed of doubt.
Post-divorce struggles.
She thought about Michael, charming and careless, building a new life in Seattle while she held together the pieces he’d left behind.
She thought about the bill, the months of work, the coalition she’d built one vote at a time. All of it at risk because there were companies that didn’t want the added costs it would mean.
Are you ready for that?
She ate and worked, losing sense of time until there came a soft knock at the door.
Melissa looked up. The door opened a crack, and June appeared, silhouetted against the hall light.
“I made tea,” she said. “I found some chamomile in the back of the cabinet—I hope that’s okay. I thought you might…” She trailed off. “I’ll just leave it here.”
She set a steaming mug on the desk, the ceramic making a soft sound against the wood. The scent of chamomile drifted up, warm and faintly sweet.
