“Do you want to make the water disappear before or after you get out?”
“Now,” she said simply. Hannah squatted and pulled the plug, squealing in delight and stomping her feet as the water was sucked down the drain. Her rubber ducks dropped to the bottom of the tub. There was a toy boat in there too. She used it as a bucket to dump water out of the bath—usually on me—rather than letting it float. I was secretly trying to “lose” that toy, but she kept demanding I find it. I held out Hannah’s towel for herand wrapped it around her shoulders when she ducked under my arms.
“Let’s get you dry, sweet girl.”
“Okay.”
I had Hannah dry and in pajamas a few minutes after getting her out. She hated brushing her teeth, but we struggled through it, and I carried her giggling and upside down into her bedroom. The walls were adorned with every picture she’d drawn or painted at daycare. I’d added homemade sheep on different colored pieces of paper and stuck them to her ceiling, too—Cara’s gift of Mem Fox’sWhere is the Green Sheep?was perfection. It was her absolute favorite story.
Hannah had moved from her crib to a single a few months ago. I dropped her onto it and laughed as she squealed in delight. She scrambled up and flopped back. When her head hit the pillow, she closed her eyes and pretended to snore.
“Oh no, Hannah’s already asleep. I can’t read her a story,” I exclaimed.
“Mamá tory. Green sheep. Green sheep,” she chanted.
I laughed, my heart filling with endless love. “Of course, sweet girl. Mamá will always read you a story.”
She patted the bed next to her and demanded, “Up. Cuddles.”
This was my favorite part of the day. Hannah was a ball of energy most of the time. She struggled to sleep during the day, and at night she went a hundred miles a minute until she conked out. If her bedtime ritual wasn’t followed, she would scream for an hour. The only surefire way I’d found to ease that transition for her was to read a story, both of us cuddled up on her bed.
I climbed on and handed her the photo of her mom and dad. She kissed them goodnight every evening, and tonight was no exception. Hannah pressed her open mouth to the glass and said, “Night, Mommy. Night Daddy” sweetly.
“Goodnight, Mommy and Daddy,” I repeated.
Hannah popped her thumb in her mouth, and I started reading. She cuddled into me, resting her head on my shoulder so she could see the pictures as I turned the pages. I read the rest of the story to her, then read it again when she was still wide awake.
Finally, I got to the last line and whispered, “‘Fast asleep.’”
I shifted and slipped Hannah’s toy sheep under her arm. She cuddled it close, and her eyes drooped, falling closed as she kept sucking on her thumb. I climbed gingerly off the bed and kissed her forehead, then put the photo frame back. “Goodnight, sweet girl. Mamá loves you.”
I tiptoed out of the bedroom and closed the door after me, then fired up the monitor. The journal I’d started the day after Hannah came to stay with me was sitting open on the kitchen table. I recounted the day’s special moments and then sat back, smiling. She’d had a good day. Journaling might seem silly, but I was loving being able to write about all the fun things she did and said. I’d been bestowed with the gift of Hannah’s early childhood. I wanted to make a record of our times together.
My stomach grumbled, and I went on the hunt for the remainder of the ANZAC cookies Carina had baked with the girls. I devoured one and left the tin on the kitchen counter while I wiped down the bathroom, mopping the wet floor and sorting Hannah’s toys so I didn’t stand on them in the morning when I had a shower.
I looked down at myself and groaned. I had more laundry thanks to the colored bath salts that Hannah liked in her baths. I was anything but the picture of sexy. With my hair in a messy bun and wearing leggings, fluffy socks, and a loose T-shirt that had a wet patch the size of my entire belly, I looked like I was planning a night of eating takeout and bingeing Doritos.
But I didn’t need to look sexy. I had an apology to make and some begging to do, and that was it.
I tossed Hannah’s wet towel over my shoulder and picked up her clothes. I hadn’t even taken two steps out of the bathroom to get changed when there was a knock at the door. I opened it and smiled as Miller held up two takeout bags with enough food to feed an army. He was stylishly dressed in a pair of dark jeans, Chucks, a grey suit jacket, and navy sweater, while Spencer wore his trademark black-on-black outfit. They looked good enough to eat.
“Come in.” I ushered them inside and gestured to the back of the house. “Go straight through to the kitchen. We can eat in there.”
I watched them walk down the short corridor, both turning their heads at the doorways to the bathroom and living room and slowing to look at the photos of Hannah and me on the wall—all our happy memories mounted for us to see every day.
I looked at my little house through their eyes—they were multi-millionaires. They’d probably be searching for a mansion on the water or in the hills. With staff.
I had me.
My house was small at best, but I liked to think of it as charming. There were original hardwood floors throughout, white walls, light furniture, and aqua-and-blue accents. I had a timber anchor and beautiful prints of deserted beaches on the walls in the living room. The house was crammed with toys, and the kitchen sink still had Hannah’s supper dishes tossed in there. It was lived in and loved. Imperfect, but definitely enough for us.
I tossed Hannah’s clothes and towel into the washer in my laundry cupboard and followed the boys into the kitchen.
“Where are your plates?” Miller asked.
I reached for them, but Spencer stopped me, taking over to set the end of the table that didn’t have remnants of Hannah’s dinner all over it.
“You didn’t have to do this.” How did I say that I was sorry to Spencer for sleeping with his husband, but thanks for dinner? It was a ludicrous situation to be in.
