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She shrugs, refusing to look at me.
“What happened?” I ask suspiciously. The face she’s giving me is one she only uses when she knows she’s in trouble.
“They kept teasing me, so I punched Jimmy in the tummy.”
“Tilly,” I groan.
She reaches into her backpack and pulls out a note. She hands it to me and I see it’s a note from her teacher, Miss Walker, wanting to meet with me to discuss Tilly’s behavior.
“You know not to hit anyone, Till,” I scold.
She looks up at me with her big green eyes, the same deep emerald as her father’s. “But I heard Aunt Ellie say you stopped the bullies by hitting them.”
Shit. I can’t think of a response that doesn’t make me a hypocrite. I hide a smile. She’s definitely my daughter. I change the subject, and we talk about seeing her grandparents. She immediately brightens up, bouncing excitedly in her seat.
We pull up outside their house, and I have to scold Tilly again for opening the door before I’ve actually stopped the car. Getting out, I go around to her side and open the door. She takes my hand and practically yanks me up the path.
“Gran,” she yells, racing up to the door where Heather is crouched, her arms outstretched. “I missed you! I did you a painting.” She pulls out a piece of paper full of bright colors and paint strokes, holding it up proudly.
“It’s beautiful, Till. Why don’t we go and stick it on the fridge?” Heather looks up at me and nods. I hide a smile, knowing that’s probably the only acknowledgement I’ll get all night.
I sit at the kitchen table, a tea in front of me, watching Heather and Tilly together. There’s no doubting how much she loves her Gran, and Heather obviously loves her just as much.
That’s why you do this. That’s why we come here every week. For Tilly.
Reminding myself of that makes it easier for me to deal with the constant little digs and the focusing on all I do wrong.
One thing I can’t fault is the cooking. It makes me wish I could afford a cook too. Tonight we’re having roast pork with all the trimmings, and as the food is laid out on the table, I’m salivating. My stomach rumbles loudly, earning me a pointed look from Heather. Tilly, who’s sitting next to me, giggles and rubs my stomach.
“You tummy is speaking,” she laughs. I lean over and kiss her on the forehead as I try and hide my embarrassment.
“Sounds like you’re not eating enough, dear,” Heather observes, handing me the platter of meat. I take a small piece and force a smile, ignoring her raised eyebrows.
“Trust me, I eat fine,” I reply. “How’s the garden going, Jim?” I ask, eager to get the spotlight off myself. Jim may be quiet, but if there’s one thing he can talk about for hours, it’s his garden. My plan works, and for the rest of dinner, Jim dominates the conversation.
By the end of the night, I leave with my arms full with fruits and vegetables freshly grown by Jim.
“Make sure you actually eat them,” Heather says, kissing Tilly goodbye. “Don’t just leave them to go rotten.”
I bite my tongue and plaster a smile on my face, even though I so badly want to respond. Jim stands next to h
is wife, as usual, not saying a word. I wonder if they’re like that when they’re alone? It’s like he can’t speak or do anything without her permission, and god forbid he ever disagree with her.
“Thanks for dinner, guys. We’ll see you next week,” I say instead, sliding into the drivers seat. I check Tilly is all belted in before I start the car. She waves like crazy as we drive off.
By the time we get home, Tilly is fast asleep. I carefully bundle her into my arms and carry her to bed. She’s such a heavy sleeper, like her father was. The only thing that can wake her is her nightmares.
When I finally pull her bedroom door over, I’m exhausted. I text Ellie, telling her about Tilly’s brush with the law, and then run myself a bath. Before I can get in to unwind, my phone starts to ring. I see that it’s Ellie and I press answer.
“How can you be angry at her for doing exactly what you did as a five-year-old?” Ellie laughs.
“Hey, who said I’m angry at her? It’s you she overheard,” I shoot back, sitting on the edge of the bath.
“You can’t blame me for this,” she protests. “Besides, sounds like Jimmy deserved a punch to the guts.”
“Yeah, but somehow I don’t think encouraging my child to settle problems with violence is going to win me the Mother of the Year award,” I say, my voice dry.
“Anyway, back onto you. Any news on the work front?”
