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“Mom, it has sugar.”
I chuckle at the horror on her face. “You say it like it’s a bad word.”
She looks at me like she’s never seen me before. “Mom, are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, baby. Now help me box these up for Sweet.” I drop a kiss on her head and point at the stack of flat packed boxes on the counter.
“Can I help you next time you get an order?”
I smile in pleasant surprise. “You’re going to get up early again?”
She nods, eagerly. “This was fun. You smile and dance and sing when you’re baking, and I love seeing you happy.” She smiles widely at me before she hops down and walks over to get the boxes I pointed to.
I sit there, my heart in my throat and full to bursting with gratitude that I got something right. I watch my daughter bounce around the kitchen, smiling and tossing her head of unruly curls that range in texture from tight spirals to loose corkscrews. I resist the impulse to call her over, so I can braid it up. Because she loves her hair. But for its light golden-brown color, it’s just like mine. When I don’t have it flat ironed within an inch of its life.
I run my hands over my still scarf covered head and scowl at the rows of pins holding it in place and long for the ease of the wash and go style I wore in Mexico.
“So, how are things at school?” I broach the subject gingerly, hoping that I can get her to open up, without disrupting our cozy vibe. She’s an amazing kid, quirky and a little shy. But, she’s no shrinking violet. The girl she fought used to be one of her best friends. They grew apart, and Eva didn’t seem to mind that. But when her former friend joined a clique of bullies and targeted Eva, she defended herself. She was anxious about going back to school after the suspension and very tight-lipped about how she was doing.
To my relief, she shrugs, grabs a scone, takes a bite and grins. “I don’t care about those girls, mom. ‘Cause you taught me the rules, remember?”
“Yes, I do.” I tussle her hair.
When she was seven, she encountered her first bully. And I’d given her a list of what I called “rules of friendship” and made her memorize and repeat them every single day.
1) Friends don’t hurt us on purpose.
2) Friendship is optional and it’s okay to end one.
3) To have a friend, you have to be a friend.
“So, if they say something mean, that means they’re not my friends, and I don’t care about them anyway,” she declares. She reaches for my hand and links our fingers and squeezes. “I’m fine, Mom. And I want you to be, too.”
Startled by her solemn tone and knowing gaze, I let go of her hand and walk to the fridge to make myself some tea. I’ve been dreading this moment for, what feels like, her whole life. “Why do you think I’m not, okay?”
“She walks over to me and wraps her arms around me from behind and presses her cheek to my back. I cover her small hands with mine. And she tightens her hold on me. “Mom, I’m young, but I’ve got eyes. You’re alone. And you’re bored, and you’re sad.”
Guilt stabs at me. I hate that she knows and is worried about me. I pat her hand and turn around, so we’re facing each other. She looks so determined, and pride swells my heart. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got stuff to figure out.”
She purses her lips and puts her hands on her hips, in a terrifyingly, exact imitation of my mother. “Then do it, Mom. Because you’re amazing. And Daddy…I love him. But ... you don’t have to stay like this for us.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know about Hanna.” She looks at me, her eyebrow raised in challenge, daring me to deny it.
“Whaa--” I grapple for what to say. My mother warned me. Shit.
Raised voices outside the kitchen door announce my mother and Tyson’s approach up my back walk. I asked them over to talk about an idea I had, but they’re an hour early.
“We’ll talk about this later, I promise,” I say, and she nods and steps away, just as they walk through the door. They’re so deep into their argument, they don’t even look our way. They stride to the round dining table and sit, without missing a beat of their conversation.
“Ty - you’re not ready and you don’t get a thumb on the scale just because your last name is Wilde. In fact, having that last name means you have to earn your place; there can’t be a perception of nepotism.” My mother’s tone is more placating than normal. She hates arguing with Tyson, he’s her favorite.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this.” Tyson slaps the table, as he slips into a chair and grabs a cup of coffee. The glass top rattles and the blue and gold painted china teacups jump in the saucers.
My mother doesn’t even blink. “You’re the one who’s making this difficult. You shouldn’t be pursuing this when you’re not ready,” she tells him, matter-of-factly.
He growls low in his throat and looks like he’s fighting to maintain control.
