“Good job, Molly,” she praises. “Do you think you can keep an eye on it while I check the cookies?”
My daughter nods, her little face glowing as she’s handed responsibility.
I close the lid of my laptop and steeple my fingers as I watch.
“Ooh, they’re done,” Tate declares, taking a tray from the oven and placing it on a rack to cool.
My call ended a while ago, but I’ve remained sitting at the dining table where I have a direct line of sight to them both. Tate took Molly into the kitchen the moment we arrived home, and I’ve been trying to work. But every delighted laugh of Molly’s has had me snapping my head up to see what she’s finding so entertaining. And each time I’ve loweredmy eyes back to my screen, another sound has filled my ears, commanding my attention.
The sound of sweetly sung notes, so quiet that if I were to tap on the keys I might miss them.
Tate sings, winking at Molly as she joins her stirring the pot on the stove. I don’t recognize the song she’s singing, but I strain to hear every word to make sure they’re suitable for Molly to hear.
“Whispers of the past, the future’s calling... Unleash your potential… let the world hear your sound.”
“It’s ready!” Tate calls, glancing over her shoulder. “Oh.” She falters when she sees me staring at her. “Um… dinner’s ready.”
I walk over to the places she’s set at the kitchen island and help Molly up into her booster seat. Tate places down two plates of steaming pasta with mushrooms and truffle shavings on them, then steps back with a look of trepidation.
“Tell me what you think,” she says.
I slide into the seat and twirl a thick ribbon of pasta around my fork, aware of her eyes on my mouth as I take it in and chew. Flavor bursts on my tongue and I lick my lips after swallowing, already loading up another forkful.
“It’s good. Really good.”
She exhales with a laugh like she was holding her breath. “You sound surprised.”
“Sorry.” I hold her eyes over the steaming pasta on my fork and she flusters.
Molly’s digging in happily beside me and Tate’s eyes slide to her, lighting up as she makes noises of approval. Her pasta has been cut into small pieces for her so she can get it in her mouth on her small fork. My eyes zero in on the small pieces on her plate before I look back at Tate, who’s clearing up the cooking pans.
“Why aren’t you eating?” It’s a simple question, but it comes out as an accusatory bark.
She startles, dropping the spoon. I rise from my seat, collecting a plate from the cabinet. Tate side-eyes me as I stand beside her, depositing a serving from the pan onto it.
“You need to eat,” I say.
“I can wait until I get home. It’s not like I’ll waste away.” She laughs awkwardly, smoothing down the T-shirt that belonged to her loser ex over her curvy hips.
I flick my eyes over where the band logo covers her breasts and grind my teeth.
Tate?” I clip in a low voice.
“Yeah?” She blinks up at me innocently.
I inhale slowly to calm myself.
“My daughter will not be subjected to talk of healthy female bodies being anything other than something to be proud of.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh… I…”
I lean closer, and she tilts her head back to look up at me. “So I suggest you start considering the way you talk about yourself carefully. Understand?”
She nods.
“Understand?” I repeat, holding the plate of pasta out.
She swallows, her lips parting as she holds my eyes. “I understand.”
