Both twins rush out of the living room.
“You’ll just have to pretend you like them,” she warns me. "The girls insisted on making up their own recipe. I made a second batch of real cookies, but they aren’t ready yet. I was going to swap them out without the girls noticing, but I think it’s too late now,” she laughs.
“Oh goodness. Okay. I’ll try to keep a straight face,” I giggle.
“How did it go?” Stella asks, excitedly.
“Ithinkit went really well! But I guess we have to wait and see if I get a callback for a second interview. You never know if they're willing to hire you once they find out you’re a single parent,” I shrug.
Stella nods thoughtfully. “This is true, but they would be stupid not to hire you.”
The first thing I did when I came back was start looking for a nanny that the girls connected with. The moment Stella met them, I knew she was the right person. She’s older than the other candidates, in her late forties or early fifties, but still bright with spirit and enthusiasm, allowing her to keep up with their endless energy. And she has a wonderfully gentle and caring nature.
“Mama, here!” Kira shouts, running at me and shoving a cookie into my hand. It’s sticky and somewhat crumbly. It feels like a mud pie and all kinds of wrong.
Stella does her best to hide her laughter as I lift the inedible-looking object to my mouth, scrunching my nose in fear of what it is going to taste like.
I bite into it and powder fills my mouth.
Salt is the overpowering flavor. Flour is the overpowering texture.
I cough, and a puff of white powder comes out of my mouth, which makes me laugh, which makes me cough again.
Stella sneaks behind me to take the cookie from my hand, and I pretend to shove the rest of it, no longer in my hand, into my mouth.
I fake chew for a while, making noises of approval.
The girls both have their eyes locked onto me.
“Was it the best cookie you ever had?” Kira asks.
“Can you taste the pink?” Kelsey asks.
“It was so good,” I say, swallowing again and again to try and get the thick layer of salt off my tongue, still coated there after that first bite.
Stella hands me a glass of milk. “You always need milk with cookies,” she says informatively.
“Oh yes, you do!” Kira agrees.
The girls have my hair and their father’s eyes; dark chocolate-brown waves that flow down their backs in thick curls, and bright blue eyes that often steal my breath away when I'm reminded of how he used to look at me.
Of how he used to love me.
Ugh. I hate thinking about him.
It’s a waste of space in my life. A waste of emotion. A waste of anger.
For the longest time, the only drive I had pushing me forward was my hatred towards him. The resentment that I carried in my heart for how easily and howcruellyhe threw me away.
Between that resentment and pure stubbornness, I became a force to be reckoned with. That drove me as long as I needed it to.
Then, over the years, I changed. Gone was that naive girl. That innocent, easily manipulated girl.
I became numb to the hurt, shoving it down deep inside of me, somewhere I don’t feel it anymore. I stopped being so emotional and started being strategic. My career was thriving, and that meant I could give my girls the life they deserved.And they were thriving, too.
The resentment faded and was replaced with pride in my beautiful twins. Pride in the amazing children I had. Now they are the only thing that motivates me in everything I do. They are my entire universe. My everything.
Oh, sure, most days I’m on the verge of a mental breakdown. But as long as my career is flourishing and my girls see me smiling, I think I’m doing damn well.
