He should move the family in with his mom. A built-in babysitter is the way to go. Never once did I regret moving Ivy in with my parents or staying after Hope was born, even when I had to fight to hold my baby. Knowing I had backup that knew how to care for a baby gave me comfort.
“Well then, I'd better make three of both. Would you help me grab some stuff out of the pantry, Daire?”
“Of course, Aunt Temperance.” Daire sets down his fork and stands up to help.
The two of them step out of the room, and I go back to researching our new friend, the money launderer.
“What’s next?” Everett saunters in, holding the phone with two fingers.
Finding out who you are. “Breakfast.”
The boy’s eyes move to the bar. His eyes go wide. “I already ate breakfast.”
“Good, then it’s time for second breakfast. Take a plate and eat.” If Nonna sees him, she’s going to start feeding him nonstop.
“Just put the flour over there on the bar.” Mom sets fresh and freeze-dried strawberries on the bar.
Everett’s plate crashes to the ground. “Mom! You’re dead. I watched them kill you.”
Not Enough Caffeine
Fiona
Why did this have to happen before my third cup? It’s probably ice cold with all the lovely foam melting away back on the picnic table. Such a waste. There was a point in my life that walking away from any food would have been an unimaginable loss for a completely different reason. A point in time where a meal was worth more than anything I owned.
For some of the kids here, it still is.
And now there’s a man threatening what we built. The crazy man, who thinks he’s going to buy my bakery, is sitting in it methodically eating his breakfast like just his presence alone will make it so. Years ago, a man like him would have filled me with terror even with Jacko sitting right there ready to protect me.
Now all I want to do is throw him out of my bakery and away from these kids.
That sounds kind and reasonable. I feel anything but reasonable and kind. I want to take that butter knife he placed carefully on the top of his plate and practice knife throwing with him as the target. Stabbing him would be good too. Though I might get dirty.
Instead of doing either of those things, I walk over to him and say, “Can I get you anything else?”
“Sit.”
I hate that my body does what he says. After all the years of therapy, I shouldn’t do things out of instinctual fear, and today it’s happened twice.
Do I even want to know what my therapist is going to say about this behavior? Probably not, and I’ve been doing so well for the last few years.
Stop worrying about the past. The present is sitting right in front of you, not getting stabbed.
“This is what I’m willing to pay for this little place you have.” The obnoxious man slides a piece of paper across the table. “Each week that you wait, I’ll knock fifty grand off the total.”
I ignore the paper. “It’s not for sale.”
“Everything has a price.” He looks me up and down and licks his lips.
How does he know I was a prosti—He can’t. It isn’t tattooed on your forehead. My hip starts to burn.
Don’t let this guy get into your head. This man only has power over you if you let him.
You’re in control.
This is your home. These are your kids.
You aren’t helpless.
