A whisper of doubt curls in my chest, so small, I can almost ignore it, especially when the lights on a red barn flicker to life, like they’re stamping a seal of approval on our future.
“I love you, Chloe,” he rasps, laying his head on mine.
And when I tell him, “I love you, too,” it never once occurs to me that love might not be enough.
one
CHLOE
“Mom,where’s my furry sweater? You know, that one I really like?”
Some days, I can follow every word my eight-year-old daughter asks me, no matter how nonsensical it is, and knowexactlywhat she’s asking for.
But today is not one of those days.
Today, all I can do is blink at her and be a little thankful that she’s temporarily distracted me from worrying about the leak in my photography studio.
“Phoebe—what?”
“Mom, look out!” she says, pointing to the spaghetti sauce boiling over on my cooktop.
Today has been the Monday-est Tuesday of all time.
“Crap,” I mutter, snatching up the closest kitchen towel and wiping tomato splatter off the glass stovetop. A burned stench drifts into the air as it scorches around the burner ring.
“Language!” She giggles. “You gotta put money in the swear jar now, Mom.”
I hoped the swear jar would curb my occasional proclivity to use “grown-up words”, but it’s become an ongoing joke instead—mostly at my expense. Each time I slip, she grins wider, and the coins clink louder.
I’m drowning in reminders of what I can’t rein in, even in small ways.
“Chloe Marie Brooks,” my mom’s voice scolds from the screen on my kitchen table.
I sigh because I’m not in the mood to be judged right now.
“I’m an adult, Mom. Let’s all move on.” I turn the burner down to simmer, then shift to face Phoebe. “So, tell me more about this furry sweater?”
“Mom.” She draws my name out in a typical dramatic fashion and huffs as she leans toward me. The braids that looked perfect this morning have loosened to the point that one is about to fall apart. “You know.The sweater.The one you got me at that place, and it’s super soft?”
Sure.That place.Her vague description narrows it to one of three places she loves to shop.
My stomach rumbles as the rich aroma of Italian herbs and tomato sauce fills the air. I was so busy at the studio today that the only food I’ve had was treats I grabbed from Storywood Sweets for my clients.
Cookies only take a person so far, and I definitely need real food to interpret Phoebe-speak.
“Tell you what. Let’s eat dinner, and then I’ll find your sweater. Sound good?”
“Did you make bread?” She bats dark lashes at me, the green eyes they frame dancing with excitement.
Of course, she’d ask that. The girl loves carbs more than I love Christmas. And that’s saying a lot.
“Sure did. Go put the basket on the table, will you?” I gesture to the bowl sitting a few feet away on the counter. “Did you set the table? Wash your hands?”
“Yes, Mom!” Her answer already smacks of the sarcastic undertones of a pre-teen, and I wince.
“I don’t remember you giving me this much attitude.” My mother chuckles.
No, because I didn’t have the luxury of it.
