Love is the one thing that keeps me moving, and even on the hardest days, it still feels like work I’d never trade.
I finish the wine, rinse the glass, and leave it beside the cereal bowls sitting in the sink. When I walk back into the living room, Evie hasn’t moved except to drape an arm across her dinosaur. Her curls spill across the pillow, her cheeks flushed. My heart squeezes in that familiar combination of tenderness and worry—the push and pull of watching her grow faster than I can prepare for.
I kneel beside her and brush a stray curl from her forehead. “You’re my whole world,” I say, voice low. “You always will be.” She mumbles something about hitting a home run and shifts deeper into the blanket.
The smile comes easily, even as my throat tightens. She deserves a mom who feels lighter than this. A mom who isn’t juggling every piece of life in a constant rotation, hoping nothing slips through the cracks.
My back protests when I stand to go set the timer on the coffee maker for the morning. I think about how I used to imagine a life bigger than Cedar Falls, a version of me with open horizons and no responsibilities tugging at her sleeves. But that version didn’t know Evie. Or the kind of strength that comes from being the sole provider for a tiny human. The woman I am now carries morethan she ever planned for, but she also doesn’t know how to let anyone take even an inch of that weight.
Cam keeps offering, though. Fixing things. Bringing little gifts for Evie. Showing up in ways he probably thinks I don’t notice. Maybe I shouldn’t notice. Maybe I shouldn’t care. But it’s becoming harder and harder not to, and that’s exactly why I keep space between us—needing someone is dangerous when your whole life depends on staying upright.
Still, his face drifts through my mind, refusing to disappear. I shut the thought down, stuffing it into the tidy little box that I tend to keep my feelings.
When I return to the couch, I pause and graze my fingers along Evie’s cheek. She sighs softly, settling again. I turn off the lamp and lean down to lift her into my arms. She’s heavy in the way only sleeping kids are, her head tucked against my shoulder. In her bedroom, I lay her on the mattress and ease her shirt up over her head—it’s streaked with dirt from where she slid into first base earlier—and swap it for a clean one. I slip off her little jeans, leaving her in soft cotton shorts, then pull the quilt over her legs and press a kiss to her hair.
She should’ve taken a bath, should’ve been tucked in hours ago, but we’ll save the rest for morning.
I go to my room, brush my teeth, wash my face, strip out of my clothes. I lie down, phone in hand, thumb hovering over Cam’s name.
I type before I can second-guess it.
Kate:
Mom’s keeping Evie tomorrow afternoon.
The dots appear almost instantly.
Cam:
Yeah? You need help with something?
My stomach twists. He knows exactly what I mean.
Kate:
Maybe.
Cam:
Maybe doesn’t sound convincing.
I take a breath and type slower.
Kate:
I just meant…I’ll have the house to myself.
There’s a long pause. Then—
Cam:
Don’t play coy, Katie.
Kate:
Who says I’m playing?
Cam:
