Zara can more than afford Marta on her own. This is her way of making it easier for me without making it sound like pity.
I’d like to refuse but with my budget we can’t afford anyone half as nice as Marta.
Matthew
I’m chopping vegetables when Brooke walks into the kitchen with Penny. The blade hits the cutting board in a steady rhythm, the only sound in the room. I just got home from work, changed, and started cooking since Brooke was giving Penny a bath. The doctor cleared her weeks ago to do everything normally again, but I’ve kept doing the cooking anyway. I like it. It keeps me moving, keeps things… quiet.
She leans against the counter, watching me. I don’t look up.
Ever since our fight and her stubborn refusal tosee reason, we haven’t really spoken. She tried to act like it never happened, but I can’t. I don’t have it in me to just reset like that.
The thing is, I don’t think I’m wrong. I’m not one of those guys who thinks a woman belongs in the kitchen or barefoot with a baby on her hip. I love Brooke. Itrusther. But I’m giving her the chance to stay home with our daughter. How the hell can a mother refuse that?
All that talk about wanting “freedom” feels like code fornot trusting me to provide.
I’m sautéing onions when Brooke says, “Can you take a few hours off tomorrow?”
I keep my eyes on the pan. “Why?”
She shifts Penny higher on her hip. “I want you to meet Marta. The nanny.”
I clench my jaw. “You picked one.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her nod. “Well, Iwould’veasked your opinion,” she says evenly, “but you weren’t exactly talking to me.”
I finally look up from the pan. “And that’s my fault?”
She draws in a slow breath, her teeth clenched. “Are you implying it’s mine?”
I glance down at Penny in her arms, nearly two months old now, soft and warm and oblivious to the storm brewing over her head. I set the spatula down and wipe my hands on a towel before stepping forward.
“Give her to me,” I say quietly. She doesn’t argue. I take Penny gently, her tiny fingers curling against my chest, and it’s like the rest of the kitchen blurs out.
“I’m gonna spend some time with my daughter.”
I turn and head for the nursery, feeling Brooke’s stare burn into my back.
Behind me, her voice sounds pissed. “We have to talk.”
I don’t look back. “Not in front of our daughter,” I mutter, heading down the hall to the nursery and shutting the door softly behind me.
Penny’s already starting to get drowsy by the time I settle into the rocking chair. I hold her against my chest, her tiny breaths warm against my neck, and just rock.
Even after she falls asleep, I don’t move. I keep holding her. It’s not like I get that many chances.
I wonder if my ma ever did this. Sat like this in the dark, holding me after I’d fallen asleep. Probably not.
Ma.
I haven’t spoken to her since that day. She hasn’t tried, and neither have I. I guess I learned how to hold a grudge from her, after all.
A slow sigh slips out of me. I force myself to get up, careful not to jostle Penny. Gently, I lower her into the crib.
Not mine. Stella’s kids’.
I should’ve known how she felt the day she couldn’t even find my crib. The woman who kept every single one of my report cards, every art project, every photograph, and she couldn’t find my crib.
I shake my head, tapping Penny’s little belly lightly. “Why are all the women in my life so damn pig-headed,” I whisper. “You won’t be like that, right, baby?”
