This was more punishment for my naivete. Robert insisted we put everything we had in his name only. The reason? I didn’t have an income, so adding me to the loans would only raise his interest rate. Thank goodness the banker who worked on our mortgage convinced him to add my name on the deed, to make things easier in the event of Robert’s untimely death.
I tried very hard not to think that his immediate death would be quite timely. He was my daughter’s father, after all.
The sound of a closing truck door jarred me back to the moment, and I gave chase. “Wait!”
“Look, lady,” he said through the open window. “Everything you need to know is on that paper. I just make the collections.”
I glanced at the sheet in my hand. “But—”
Al drove away while I struggled for something more to say, my white SUV rolling nose-down behind him.
“Damn it!”
A dog barked, and I remembered the neighbors.
“Sorry!” I called, waving to the onlookers that had doubled in number since my first appearance on the lawn.
I hurried back inside to call the restaurant and let them know I would be late. Then I called Camilla to ask for her help. She didn’t answer the call.
I swallowed my humiliation and typed out a heartfelt apology for my behavior yesterday. Then I sent a follow-up, apologizing for not sending the message sooner.
I sent up silent prayers for her forgiveness, then ordered an Uber. I texted Alicia on my ride to work. She’d get the message at lunchtime and text back. I suspected she was busy in her classroom by now.
Work was busy, but somehow time still moved like molasses. I burned my hands and fingers repeatedly, too distracted by potential life catastrophes to catch the important details right in front of me—like the open oven door or still-hot pans. I did my best not to draw attention but failed miserably. Everyone in the kitchen asked if I was feeling okay at least once, and I was confident Lucas would see straight through me if he even glanced my way.
Of all my many concerns, the potential damage I’d caused to my relationship with Camilla was most terrifying. My stomach revolted at the thought of losing her. I wanted to curl up and cry. To scream out my regret. Whatever else happened, I could not survive losing Camilla. Having her hold me at a distance because I’d used my words to hurt her, the way my mom had hurt me, was the absolute worst thing I could think of. And I feared that was exactly what was happening.
Thankfully, our boss wasn’t himself today either. Lucas stayed out of the kitchen. He greeted a few guests, and roamed the dining area once or twice, but otherwise remained in his office. I should’ve checked on him. Instead, I—selfishly—counted his distraction as a blessing. I wasn’t keen on lying to him about the Invisible Baker, and it bothered me immensely that I hadn’t told him the truth from the beginning.
Why had I suggested Lucas check out the Invisible Baker online, instead of giving him my business card and a handshake?
Originally, I’d told myself I had good reason. I wanted to keep the business to myself a little longer. In many ways, the Invisible Baker had saved me. At first, by providing hope. Later by providing purpose. More recently by providing a much-needed income. I hated the thought of dragging something so precious into the light where it could be burned. What if exposing myself meant customers would be afraid to order from me? Wasn’t the shared secrecy a big reason for their trust? Without anonymity, what was my company good for?
Unfortunately, lying to myself felt just as bad as lying to Lucas.
The ugly truth had risen to the surface as I tossed and turned during the night. Everything I’d told myself was true, sure, but there was more to it than that. I’d realized around three o’clock this morning that I’d lied to Lucas because I was afraid of being seen. Decades in a toxic marriage, combined with the example my mother set, had hurt me in ways I was just beginning to understand. I believed if I was small enough, if no one noticed me, if I didn’t draw any attention, nothing could go wrong. No one could get mad at me. No one would rant, taunt, or yell.
I’d thought the name I chose for my business was clever, when in fact it was my trauma speaking. I just hadn’t understood until now.
Being invisible never saved me from anyone’s wrath. Dad found me anytime he wanted. Mom’s harsh words always hit their target. And Robert—I pushed his name and face from my mind. I hoped he got everything he deserved in this life. And a little more.
I hunted for Lucas at the end of my shift, chin up and shoulders back, determined to tell him my secret. Maybe I couldn’t get my SUV back or fix the mess I’d made with Camilla, but I could make one thing right today. Except my boss was nowhere to be found.
Eventually, I left the restaurant and stood on the sidewalk, debating whether to walk home or order a ride. The weather was nice, but my feet were sore. And my bank account was nearly empty. I turned toward my neighborhood and put one foot in front of the other. With a little luck, Virginia wouldn’t pop out of the bushes, mic in hand.
A weary sigh rolled from my chest. My life couldn’t look more different today than it had only a few months ago. How did so much change so quickly? Why did this life feel more real than the other ever had?
More impossible still? I’d somehow landed on Virginia’s Secrets’ radar, when nothing about my baking business was of regional importance. I helped overworked women accomplish one more thing without dying, committing murder, or being ridiculed by the at-home PTA vipers who refused to just let other women live.
Why did we do that to one another?
Women know exactly how difficult it is to be a woman, yet we judge and berate each other for making different choices. And we do that knowing the daily female struggle. Stay home with the kids or earn a paycheck? Breastfeed or bottle? Public school or private?
Choose whatever feels right for you and your family.
Then be told you’re wrong.
Sacrifice pay, sleep, or both to show up for the school bake sale. Bring something to contribute, but that’s still not enough, because you didn’t personally make it? Who made these rules? And when will we take a collective, critical look at our unfair standard practices before blaming the patriarchy?
