Not like their father.
???
"Hey, Mrs. Durant!"
Tyler Hargrove stands at the checkout, all blonde locks and a huge goofy grin. Tyler's a senior basketball star who ledMercy Ridge Highto the state championship last year and, according to my son, is going for the repeat this year.
He works at the summer basketball camp that we send Liam to, and my son has a bit of hero worship toward Tyler.
"Hi, Tyler," I smile, loading my groceries onto the conveyor belt. "How are your parents?"
"They're good," he nods, scanning the items, before he looks back up to me with a bright grin. "Hey, Mr. Durant just redid our kitchen floors! He and Mr. Armstrong did a great job—"
My heart drops. Atlas started helping with weekend contracting jobs for Trace’s business years ago—extra money for the boy's college fund.
I see the money from that being deposited into the accounts we set up for Liam and Noah. Even my children have their own bank accounts.
I’m glad they’ll have a cushion, but Atlas promised it wouldn’t be every weekend.
At first it wasn’t… now it’s every Saturday he’s not at the shop.
That's when the guilt cycles into me.
God, your husband works not just one but two jobs, and you're complaining? About what? Washing some dishes, doing laundry, cooking dinner—your one job?
So, I bit my tongue and kept quiet, and my husband retreated further and further away from us.
That is on me, for not speaking up.
My mind goes to insulting myself, to calling myself stupid and weak, but I stop before I can.
What will that accomplish?
Nothing.
Channel it into action. Stand up, and be fucking independent, Wendy. You and your feelings matter.
"—they love the color. My mom said the flow of the house is finally cohesive, and it really ties in with the shiplap. Whatever that means. I don't know, she's been watching a lot of HGTV. Anyway, could you tell him my parents said so?"
I force a smile on my face and nod as Tyler continues to scan my groceries and I load them into my reusable bags.
Mabel Freeman walks past us then, checking over something on a clipboard. She gives me a double-take before glancing down at the watch on her arm.
Pulling her glasses down her nose, she studies me over them, dark brown eyes scrutinizing me in the same way she did when I was sixteen in her US History class.
"You're here late," she observes, and she’s right because it's 10 AM.
I’ve been rigid about Sundays for years—Mabel's Market at 7 AM, home by 8, groceries unloaded, snacks and meals prepped by 9, breakfast by 9:30, lunch by 12:30.
The rest of the day was spent cleaning, doing laundry, helping with homework, then cooking and cleaning up after dinner.
By 8 PM, I was completely drained… but that was when the night shift started—making sure Liam and Noah showered, brushed their teeth, and washed their faces.
Checking their book bags, making sure Liam had his basketball bag packed for practice and that Noah had his paint brushes clean for art class.
I tucked Noah into bed, reading him a story and staying with him until he fell asleep, or else he would have nightmares.
I’d peek my head into Liam's room and tell him to put his phone down, and he would after a moody sigh and some grumbling.
