“You don’t have to say anything, Hurricane.” He cups my face in his hands. “Just keep it with you. And when things get hard in there, when Steven tries to get under your skin or make you doubt yourself, I want you to remember that you’reneveralone. You’ve got me. You’ve got April. You’ve got this.”
I nod, blinking back tears. If I start crying now, I’ll ruin my makeup and we’ll be late. “Thank you. I’ll keep it safe.”
“I know you will.” He kisses me again, soft and sweet. “Ready to have some breakfast and get this day started?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
We head downstairs, and I tuck the elephant carefully into my purse so it’s secure. My stomach churns with a powerful wave of nausea that’s been nearly knocking me off my feet lately,and I’m not sure whether I’m just hungry or my nerves are already shot for the day.
Probably both.
Regardless, I’m blaming Steven, since it’s been nothing but constant anxiety and fear since he forced his way back into my life. Now my stomach is usually in knots from the moment I wake up until the moment I finally fall asleep.
I press a hand to my abdomen, willing it to settle. I can’t afford to be sick today. I need to be strong, focused, and present.
Once we make it to the kitchen, Grant starts whipping up some French toast in record time. The smell of it hits me, and my stomach lurches, but I breathe through it.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” I call toward the living room where I can hear April watching cartoons.
“Morning, Mom!” She appears in the doorway, still in her pajamas. “You look pretty. Oh, and Grant’s making breakfast!”
“Thank you, and yes, he is.” I manage a smile. “But you need to finish getting dressed first, remember? We have to leave as soon as we finish eating.”
“Okay!” She bounces back toward the stairs.
“Five minutes until the French toast is ready!” I call after her.
Grant glances at me as he finishes cooking the first batch. “Are you sure you’re doing okay?”
“I’m fine. Just trying to psych myself up for what I know is going to be a long day.” I head to the entryway where April’s backpack is slumped against the wall, and dig through it quickly—homework folder, check. Library book that was due yesterday, check. Permission slip for the field trip next week, signed and ready to go.
By the time April comes back down, dressed and with her hair pulled into a ponytail that’s only slightly crooked, Grant has breakfast on the table.
We eat quickly, or at least they do. I push my food around my plate, managing a few bites while April chatters about something that happened at recess yesterday. Grant listens attentively, asking questions, and I’m grateful for the distraction.
“Okay, sweetheart,” I say finally, checking the time. “We need to get going. Do you have your backpack?”
“Yep!” April grabs it from where I left it by the door.
“Homework?”
“In the folder.”
“Library book?”
“Mom, we both know you literally just checked all of this.” But she’s smiling when she says it.
“I know, I know.” I smooth down her ponytail, fixing the crooked part. “But I also want you to be in the habit of checking.”
Grant appears with his keys, already wearing his jacket. “Ready?”
I nod, even though my stomach is churning again as we head out to the truck.
The drive to April’s school is quiet at first. Grant keeps one hand on the wheel and the other holding mine. It might just be a simple touch, but it helps ground me and reminds me that I’m not doing this alone.
From the backseat, April finally breaks the silence. “Mom?”
I turn around to look at her. “Yeah, sweetheart?”
