I really need to go grocery shopping.
But for tonight, I decide to make broccoli soup using my mother’s old recipe. The weather’s a little hot for soup, but beggars can’t be choosers. It’s either soup or takeout, and soup wins.
I still have some crusty bread left over from last night’s pepperoni pizza bread, and a few lemons to make a cold pitcher of lemonade.
"Daddy, can Elle come over for dinner?"
Hannah’s question catches me off guard. I’m in the middle of helping her with her alphabet homework, and it surprises me that she’s still thinking about our neighbor.
Truth be told, so am I.
I hesitate, the pencil still in my hand. Inviting her over feels... complicated.
We barely know her.
And yet, part of me—some stubborn, curious part—wants to say yes. Wants to learn what’s behind those guarded eyes and that careful smile.
Maybe Hannah isn’t the only one hoping Elle sticks around.
My phone buzzes suddenly, cutting through my thoughts, and I feel a jolt, like I’ve been caught staring at someone in class. My thoughts trip over themselves, scrambling for something else to focus on. I grab the phone, almost relieved to have something to shift my attention back to, even if it’s just a distraction.
But the relief is short-lived when I glance at the screen and see the name flashing: Meg, my ex-wife.
Hannah glances at me when I don’t answer right away, as if picking up on the fact that I’m not eager to talk to whoever’s calling. My hesitation quickly turns to guilt when she notices the screen and sees that it’s her mom.
“It’s Mommy!” she exclaims, her eyes lighting up as she silently urges me to answer.
"Hi, Meg."
"You know I hate it when you call me that," she snaps.
"You used to love it when I called you that, remember," I say smoothly, knowing perfectly well how much it annoys her, both the nickname and the memories.
"That was before you decided to throw your future away to tinker with wood." She knows exactly how to push my buttons, just like I know how to push hers.
Instead of defending myself, I decide to cut to the chase. "What do you want,Meghan?"
"Remember how I said I’d be able to watch Hannah while you went out of town for that wood convention?"
"Yeah," I say, already bracing myself. I know where this is going.
"I can’t do it," she says flatly. There’s a sharp edge to her voice, a hint of sarcasm I know too well. I can practically hear the eye roll. She doesn’t believe in me—never really has.
"I gave you four months' notice, Meghan," I say, doing my best to keep my voice level. "I told you how important this is. It’s not just a convention, it’s a national competition. I’ve already entered a piece. Backing out now isn’t an option."
"You have a huge family," she says. "Ask one of them to watch her for you."
I step away from the table and walk out the back door. "She's your daughter too," I whisper, hoping Hannah can't hear me. "Why do I always have to beg you to see her?"
"Don't try to guilt me into this, Jackson," she says, using my given name. "I can watch her the week after."
"And what am I supposed to do, ask the WCA to move the date of the convention just for me? It doesn't work that way."
"I'm sure you'll figure it out," she says, her voice cold, with no hint of concern. "Tell Hannah Banana I love her. Bye!"
I hold the phone in my hand and stare at it, wondering what I ever saw in Meghan. How did she go from a sweet, grounded, kind, loving woman to the person I know now?
Who am I kidding? She was always cold, calculated, and self-centered—but I was too enthralled by her beauty to care.
