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“I think I met a prince.”
His innocent words bring a smile to my lips. “Really? Where?”
He pauses for a beat and his furrowed brows make me suspicious. I’m about to ask again when he replies, “Outside our house.”
I glance at him in confusion.
“He was real, Ma. He played with Mr. Stanley.” Ray throws the cover that I just laid on top of him and is ready to jump out of the bed, trying to convince me of his friend’s existence.
“Okay. Okay. I believe you.” I pull him back. It’s not the first time he’s told me stories of his imaginary friends. He has more of those than real ones.
We live in a modest part of St. Peppers. Most parents aren’t a fan of me. I’m a single mom who got pregnant before her eighteenth birthday and lives in her parents’ house where she’s barely able to make ends meet. Their dislike for me extends to Ray, but he never complains. My heart clenches knowing that at five years old, my son has already learned to compromise.
After I read him the next few pages, Ray falls asleep in my arms. I kiss his forehead, thanking God for giving me a purpose in my life. Something for which I get up every morning.
I switch off the light and keep his door a tiny bit ajar before walking into the living room.
“Ray’s asleep?” Mom asks from the couch. Her green eyes like mine look a bit drowsy with sleep.
“Yeah.” I join her and she turns down the volume of her favorite reality show.
“Mr. Schneider called this afternoon. Seems your cake was a big hit at his party.” A huge smile lights her wrinkled face as she pushes her blonde bangs away from her forehead. I was born on a warm afternoon more than a decade after my parents’ marriage. But my mother’s age cannot be easily guessed from her pretty looks.
I slump back in the chair, feeling relieved at her words. I haven’t given Mom too many opportunities to be proud, so whenever she praises me, I embrace it.
“Yeah. Bella at the pet shop told me the same. I hope people start ordering more frequently.” I chew on my bottom lip, remembering all the items that are crowding my to-buy list for the next month.
“You will find a way, kid.” She pats my hands, which are clutching the afghan blanket too tight.
“I don’t know. Ray’s expenses at school are increasing. I really need to sell five cakes per week. That’s what Hank agreed upon.”
Mom’s face twists hearing the name of my manager at the bakery. “You don’t need to listen to that swine.”
“Mom!”
“What? He doesn’t want you to sellyour superherocupcakes locally. He doesn’t let you take any days off, even when you’re sick. I should call the labor department and have him arrested.” Mom’s lips flatten and I grab her shoulder, urging her to lower her voice before she wakes up Ray.
I don’t tell her that her list of my boss’s wrongdoings is incomplete.
She doesn’t know about his leering gaze whenever I’m in his office to collect my weekly check and his indecent propositions for dinner dates.
“You shouldn’t let a man bulldoze you like this.” Her gaze is filled with accusation and resignation, knowing her loser daughter will still let her boss treat her like a doormat.
“The bakery holds the copyright on the cupcakes, Mom,” I mumble, trying to reason with her. “I’ve seen the contract.”
When I first heard about my cupcakes being copyrighted, I confronted Hank. Okay, so not exactly confronted but politely asked about it, and he showed me the clause in my contract.
Any recipe developed by me forCakes for Allis property of the bakery.
The day I signed the contract five years ago, I paid no attention to what was written. They could have asked for my soul as long as the money paid for my mom’s medicine and my newborn son’s food.
