I stared at the wall.
“Barbara, he left me.”
Her breathing changed.
“I see.”
Then her voice went flat.
“I’ll be there soon.”
She ignored my expression, washed her hands, then lifted Chloe carefully.
Before I could object, she disconnected.
An hour later, Barbara arrived with her coat thrown over pajamas and grocery bags hanging from both arms.
This was the same woman who had spent years finding something wrong with nearly everything I did.
She ignored my expression, washed her hands, then lifted Chloe carefully.
“Well,” she whispered, “aren’t you beautiful?”
I laughed unexpectedly.
Chloe yawned directly into her face instead.
I laughed unexpectedly.
Barbara looked over.
“You paid for her medicine?”
I shook my head. “Not all of it.”
Her mouth tightened.
She looked down at Chloe.
“And Eric refused?”
I nodded.
Barbara rocked Chloe once.
“I’ve spent a long time making that man’s life easier than it should have been.”
She looked down at Chloe.
“I need to think before speaking tonight.”
Before leaving, Barbara stood beside my door.
She stayed until Chloe slept.
Before leaving, Barbara stood beside my door.
“Tomorrow morning, I’m coming back.”
I frowned. “Why?”
A strange smile crossed her face.
“Because I have a plan.”
I left Chloe with June, then followed Barbara to her car.
“Should I be worried?”
“Eric should.”
Barbara returned before sunrise.
I left Chloe with June, then followed Barbara to her car.
She refused to explain anything while driving.
“You’ll ruin your face,” she said.
We pulled onto Eric’s street while the houses were still dark.
“My what?”
“Your face. You’re terrible at hiding reactions.”
We pulled onto Eric’s street while the houses were still dark.
Barbara opened the trunk.
It was packed.
“What is all this?” I asked.
We pulled onto Eric’s street while the houses were still dark.
“Things I should have returned years ago.”
She handed me the first cardboard box.
We carried everything to Eric’s porch.
Baseball trophies. Photo albums. College boxes. Winter clothes. A battered guitar he hadn’t touched in years.
Barbara arranged them in a neat row and laid a handwritten note on top.
She locked her car and pointed toward a side street.
I turned eighteen on a Tuesday. No cake. No card. Not even a half-hearted “happy birthday.” Just my father sitting at the kitchen table, his wife stirring sugar into her mug, and my stepbrother leaning back in his chair with that look people get when they already know how the story ends.
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