Hope dances through my soul. She might not have declared she’s mine, but that one word, that one little sentence is all the encouragement I need.
And now, I have the perfect excuse to show up at her door tonight.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
SAVANNAH
With shaky arms, I dump two bags of groceries onto the kitchen counter, along with the stupid parking ticket I acquired outside the studio today.
My head is splitting.
I need to sign off on the final design of my autumn clothing range, I owe my blog subscribers a newsletter, preferably one that says something useful, and Cassandra is demanding a three-page synopsis of the second parenting book for the Inkwell Imprint.
The house is a mess. It’s not dirty, but everything is out of place, upside down. That’s what I get for being away all day yesterday. A mountain of laundry glares at me from the overflowing washing basket.
‘Mam, she hit me!’ Eden squeals, running into the kitchen and darting behind my legs.
‘She stole my hairbrush.’ Isla lunges for her sister, reaching around my thighs to tug one of her ponytails.
I step forwards, inserting myself as Eden’s human shield and exhale a weary sigh. This Single Sav craic isn’t nearly as glamorous as it looks on my Instagram page. I should havecaved and brought the girls pizza like they asked, but during the week I always try to ensure they eat proper, home-cooked meals. Weekends are another matter entirely.
‘I didn’t steal it. I borrowed it,’ Eden wails.
‘Borrowed it and didn’t put it back,’ Isla screams at her sister, like there aren’t fifteen other hairbrushes in the house.
I clear my throat and summon my best mam voice. ‘Right girls, here’s what’s going to happen. You, Eden, go find Isla’s hairbrush.’ I usher her out from behind my back towards the kitchen door. ‘Isla, you can set the table.’
‘What’s for dinner? I’m starving,’ Isla whines.
As predicted, hanger strikes.
‘Chicken and grilled broccoli. It’ll be ready in ten minutes.’ More like fifteen, but if I admit that there will be another meltdown.
‘Broccoli? You’ve got to be kidding me?’ Isla flings her small hands dramatically into the air. I should probably enroll her in stage school. She excels at drama.
‘Set the table. Please.’ I rub my temple and glance around the kitchen for headache tablets. Days like this, I wish I had a partner.
Someone to help share the load.
Someone to step up when I’m feeling down, because after the high of the weekend, I’m experiencing a monumental low.
Isla huffs all the way to the cutlery drawer, slamming it open, then slamming it closed. She bangs the knives and forks onto the kitchen table before bolting out of the kitchen door after her sister. The fighting starts again, but given it’s not as extreme as the first round, I heat some oil in a wok and dice three chicken breasts.
While the chicken simmers on the stove, I load the dirty laundry into the machine and switch it on and empty the girls’ school bags. The noise begins to escalate from upstairs.It started off playful, but as the minutes pass, the arguing returns in full force.
‘It’s my turn,’ Eden squeals.
‘Give that to me,’ Isla yells.
‘Mam!’ Eden screams from upstairs again, a panicked edge to her voice that sets my hackles rising.
Is five thirty-six on a Monday evening too early for a glass of wine?
Another incoherent scream radiates from upstairs, followed by an almighty smash.
Wine isn’t going to cut it. I need whiskey.
I stalk out of the kitchen and jog up the stairs. ‘What is going on up there?’
