Page 32 of The Right Kind of Wrong

And her sheer force of will, so far, had paid off.

She hadn’t burned anything in at least a week. While Maisie was at daycare, she continually read about navigating parenthood and what five-year-olds needed to feel safe and secure.

Hell, they’d even gotten Maisie one of the dance studio leotards and skirts after class last week, so she looked the part of a tiny ballerina as she stomped into the kitchen, making the whole situation Monroe was about to experience a little surreal.

When Maisie put her hands on her hips, like she was ready to do battle with anything in her way, Monroe pushed down her own sadness. “Your snack’s on the table.”

The meltdown was bound to happen sooner or later, but she hadn’t expected that it would be over pretzels and peanut butter.

But it was never really about the snack, and, on some level, they both knew it. Unfortunately, neither of them was great at expressing themselves, so the calm water of their lives had first started to simmer, with the inevitable boiling-over coming next.

Maisie stalked farther into the kitchen, clomping her feet as she went, making sure that Monroe knew that she was angry about . . . something. She pointed at the small plate set on the table, filled with the type of high carb/high protein snack that all the blogs had said was essential to having ahead of physical activity at this age. “I don’t want it.”

Apparently, she and Maisie weren’t reading the same literature.

Still, Monroe stayed calm in the face of Maisie’s unexpected frustration. “Do you want a different snack? We have string cheese, or I can get you a banana instead of pretzels. Do either of those sound good?”

Maisie started moving again, her sneaker-clad feet squeaking on the linoleum, arms crossed tightly against her chest. “No. I don’t want any of it.”

Monroe didn’t know where, exactly, they’d gone wrong. Maisie hadn’t gone to daycare today since it was a Thursday. They’d had breakfast, taken a walk through the neighborhood in the morning, before it had gotten too hot, and had had lunch together a few hours ago. Monroe would have killed for a smothered burrito, but she was trying to lead by example.

In the afternoon, Maisie had played with her Barbies in her bedroom. She could have been in the living room, but Monroe’s artwork had finally made it to Texas, and she’d spent almost an hour with the couriers, watching as they unpacked the incomplete pieces—which now felt strangely foreign to her upon inspection—and making sure everything had arrived without damage.

After Maisie had gotten ready for dance class, which was set to start in thirty minutes, she’d walked past the bedroom that was now Monroe’s art studio. She’d peered inside from the doorway, surveying the easels and paints and canvases that took up the majority of what used to be her playroom.

Still, she hadn’t said anything as Monroe had stood in the doorway watching her, trying to gauge Maisie’s response.

Ahead of the artwork arriving, when Monroe had gotten a clear delivery date, she’d explained to Maisie that they were going to be moving some of her toys around. The articles all said that preparing children for change was important, and Monroe had done her best, given the circumstances.

Days ago, she’d reorganized everything so that it wasn’t happening at the same time that the art arrived. That was another thing the mommy blogs had explained. It shouldn’t feel like Maisie was losing something because of the need for Monroe’s workspace but rather because it made sense for Maisie as she got older.

The Barbie accessories had all been moved into Maisie’s bedroom, where Monroe had set up a special corner and play area. It wasn’t as big as her old space, but the reality was, in a thirteen-hundred-square-foot home, there were only so many places she could move things around. She was already lucky that the house had a third bedroom; otherwise, she’d have probably needed to rent an off-site space. Briefly, she’d considered the garage, but without installing air-conditioning out there, it was too much of a gamble.

Maisie, so far, had taken everything on the chin. They’d even gone shopping together for a new rug to put in her room (green, so the Barbies could pretend they were outside).

But now, looking at Maisie’s closed-off posture and scowl, as tension radiated in waves from her tiny frame, Monroe wondered if she was watching a pot whose lid was about to blow, once the pressure became too much to bear.

Monroe kept her voice low, trying to make eye contact with the avoidant Maisie, who was looking at the wall, her lips pressed firmly together. “Honey, is this about the changes to your playroom? I’m sorry that we needed to move things around. Once my art show is over, we can figure something else out, okay?”

Monroe was absolutely willing to install something in the backyard or have the garage converted or rent space downtown, but that couldn’t happen right this minute.

She couldn’t easily solve the dour look on Maisie’s face, no matter how badly she wished that she could.

“When are you leaving?” Maisie challenged her defiantly, taking a step toward Monroe. “You’re moving everything ’round.”

Her frustrated Texas lilt would have been funny, made Monroe laugh even, except for the look of absolute seriousness setting Maisie’s features like stone.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Monroe took a calming breath. “I’m not leaving, Maisie. I’m going to stay here with you now. We’re going to live together.”

This was another conversation they’d had already, to some degree of understanding on Maisie’s side. Before a few weeks ago, Monroe had only spent a couple of days with Maisie every year, though Maisie knew that Monroe was someone her nana talked with on the phone regularly.

But Monroe was more of an idea than anything to her niece, and even if it made things harder, she understood—and respected—that she was effectively a stranger to Maisie.

“I want Nana. When is she coming back?” Maisie asked, the smallest chink in her armor showing through when her voice wavered at the mention of her grandmother.

Monroe could feel—and see on Maisie’s face—the tears pooling behind both of their eyes, threatening to be unleashed. She fought hers back. She had to be the strong one here. Slowly, she crossed the kitchen and sat down at the table, next to where Maisie stood. She didn’t try to touch her, but she did look her in the eye. “I know it’s hard, but Nana isn’t coming back. She died. Do you remember what that means?”

Maisie nodded slowly. “It means she’s gone.”