Mother hater, p.7
Mother Hater, page 7
Confused but not wanting to be rude, I gave her a friendly smile as she led me into the large living room, where a dozen people or so were assembled.
The house was chaotic once again, but at least I’d avoided a Nerf gun assault. The kids were all dressed in Christmas pajamas, and the house looked like Santa had held a rave, psychedelic drugs and everything, the day before. Wrapping paper, decorations, and toys littered every inch of the room, and lights were strung everywhere.
I stepped into the room and made eye contact with Langfield, who was sitting in the world’s ugliest chair with a toddler perched on his lap. He was wearing the most content expression I’d ever seen from the man who had been in the local news for years.
He cleared his throat, and in unison, the kids all looked at him. “Pretty Boy, here, came to walk us all through the plans for the house.”
I smiled weakly, but before I could come up with a response, I was interrupted by one of the blonde twins.
“Did you make a PowerPoint?” The question was an innocent one, but her tone dripped with judgment.
Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I shuffled my feet. “Um. No.”
“It’s the most effective way to present information to a group of diverse learners.” The other twin recited this fact, blinking her dark blue eyes at me.
The girls were in their mother’s lap, but both were sitting straight with their chins held high, assessing me. And shit, their mother was too. Though I’d just stepped in from the cold, sweat beaded at my hairline.
“Good call, girls.” The smile Langfield gave them was full of parental pride, as if they were his own kids. What the hell was in the water in this house? “This is a good lesson. Always be prepared for meetings and present yourself clearly in a professional setting.”
“Like when you have board meetings, Bossman.” A little boy—the one who shot me with Nerf darts if I’m not mistaken—sat at Langfield’s feet, dressed in what looked to be a camouflage print tutu. His neck was craned back and he was beaming at the billionaire.
“Exactly, Huck.” He ruffled the boy’s shaggy brown hair with pride.
“In my defense,” I said to my eight-year-old firing squad, “this is not a biz meeting. Mr. Langfield—”
“We calls him Bossman.” The tutu boy popped up on his knees and held one finger in the air.
With a long exhale, I dragged a hand down my face. God, this was not going well. Why weren’t these kids enjoying a post-Christmas sugar and present coma? They were all a little too articulate and inquisitive for my comfort. “Okay. Bossman texted and demanded I come here to talk to you all.”
“We’re having a team meeting.” This from another boy, a little bigger than the first, with dark hair. “When we wanted a projection screen for movie nights, we made a PowerPoint.”
“Yup,” one of the twins said. “And when Bossman wanted us to show him how our swear jar earnings were doing, we graphed our investments, growth projections, and expenses.”
“If you fail to plan, you plan to fail.” With a small smile, the girl with dark hair darted a glance at the twins, who gave her encouraging nods in response.
Jesus, this was a tough crowd. “Okay. I apologize.” I scanned the sea of faces. Every kid in the room was scrutinizing me with a calculated expression. Even the toddler with messy pigtails in Langfield’s lap. “Next time, I’ll be sure to do my homework. I’m very sorry if my lack of preparation offended you.”
Delia, blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail, had an arm wrapped around each of her twins. She was wearing a smile bigger than I’d thought she was capable of. She was loving every second of this. And I couldn’t help but feel like this discomfort might have been worth it just to see that hint of happiness.
I held up the bags my mother had packed and hoped this Hail Mary worked. “If it’s any consolation, I brought dessert.”
The kids descended on me so quickly I worried I’d be trampled. The teenager snagged one bag and had a pastry box open in a heartbeat. He doled out the treats like he’d done this before, calling out to each kid as he held out one cookie after another. With a smile far sweeter than I’d expect from the kid who’d done nothing but give me unimpressed looks, he squatted and held out a pink cookie covered in sprinkles to the toddler with the pigtails.
“Say thank you to Pretty Boy, Addie.” He popped back up and gave me a sneer far more appropriate for his demeanor.
The sweet munchkin dropped her head back and grinned. “Fank you, Preeeby Boy,” she said, stuffing the cookie into her little face.
“Pretty Boy is here to give us the rundown about what’s happening this week,” Langfield continued. “Even though he’s not prepared, let’s give him a chance.”
Fuck. All my instincts were telling me to turn and run. I didn’t need or want this job, and though we hadn’t started official renovations, it was already taking up too much of my time and energy.
But I looked from Langfield to Miller, who was sprawled out on the far couch, his long legs crossed at the ankle in front of him, and reminded myself of what was at stake.
“The crew will be here first thing tomorrow to get started on renovations.”
“Are you fixing the bathroom?” one child asked.
That question led to a chorus of them.
“Are we getting a new tub?”
“What about a Jacuzzi?”
“Ooh. Can I gets a fireman’s pole?”
“He gets a pole? No fair.”
I held my hands up, hoping the kids would take the hint and simmer down. It wasn’t until Langfield sat a little straighter and cleared his throat that the room quieted.
“We’ll start at the bottom of the house and work our way up. A dumpster will be delivered first thing tomorrow, and my crew will start demo on the rooms downstairs.”
“Wheres will we go poop?” the little boy in the tutu asked.
I bit back a chuckle. “Only the bathroom downstairs will be out of commission.”
“You can still use the other bathrooms,” Delia explained in a patient tone that until this moment I didn’t realize she was capable of.
“Yes. We’ll start work on the butler’s pantry tomorrow as well. We’ll outfit it with a refrigerator, a sink, and a microwave. That way it’ll be usable while we work on the kitchen.”
“We won’t have a kitchen?” the teen boy asked, flicking his red hair out of his eyes.
“Just for a few weeks. The kitchen is the biggest and longest project, but I promise we’ll move as quickly as we can.”
“Does that mean Auntie Shayla can’t make dinner?”
“What about swamp sludge?” The dark-haired girl looked so hopeful.
Swamp sludge? I was pretty certain I didn’t want to know, so I didn’t ask for clarification.
“I can still use the blender, sweetie.” This woman must have been Shayla. “We could always make it ahead of time and freeze it to be sure we don’t run out.” She was petite and had dark hair that was cut asymmetrically so one side swooped over an eye. Dressed in workout clothing, she was perched on Rowan Parker’s lap. The hockey star had his arm banded protectively around her waist and his face buried in her neck.
The little girl who’d asked about swamp sludge turned away from her aunt and scrunched up her face.
“I’ll be back tomorrow with the crew and the plans.” I scanned the kids, who all sat surprisingly still while munching on their cookies. Damn, how did the adults keep these kids in line like this? My nieces and nephews would be running circles by this point. The teenager was the only one not fully attentive. He was leaned back against the far wall with his head tilted back and a pair of Beats headphones on his ears. “Next time I’m here, I’ll show you all the plans and designs. But I need your help. I’m gonna need you to pack up your toys, clear out the bathrooms when I ask you to.”
The twins nodded in unison from their mother’s lap. The kid in the tutu bounced on his knees and gave me a yes, sir! The quiet little boy with the wide eyes ducked his chin but nodded as well.
“Over and over, I’ve been told that this family is a team. That you all help each other. Is that right?”
“Yup. The moms all take care of us.” The brown-haired girl sat a little straighter on the floor in front of me.
“We ares a team,” Tutu boy added.
“Great. And did I hear that you have a new team member coming?”
The little boy nodded, a grin splitting his face. “Yes!”
“That means we all need to work together to make sure we’re ready for the new teammate. So when your parents or my crew ask you to clean up or move things or stay out of certain areas, you’ll help, right?” I looked from one kid to another, waiting for each to make eye contact before moving on. “Because the faster we do this, the easier it is for everyone.”
I spent another thirty minutes answering questions before I finally made my escape. I headed to the foyer, thinking of nothing but my couch and a beer, but before I could make it out the door, Dylan appeared.
She threw her arms around me and squeezed tight. “You are so perfect.” She stepped back and grasped the pendant around her neck as she patted my cheek. “I knew the universe would send you.”
11
DELIA
“Mom. Will you fix our hair?”
I hit save on the brief I’d been furiously trying to complete and looked at the clock on my laptop. Seven fifteen. With a sigh, I rolled my neck and shoulders. I’d been up since five, doing my usual morning routine. A ride on my Peloton, followed by morning stretches with the girls. Coffee and a shower, then more coffee and as much work as I could get done before the kids were up and needed my assistance. I’d swing through the drive-thru at the coffee shop, and head to the courthouse to deal with today’s slate of insanity.
The night owl versus early bird question? What a joke. Those distinctions were so quaint now that I had two kids and a full-time job. I was both. At thirty-five, my body didn’t always like it, but it was what it was.
I’d never been under the illusion that life would be easy. Single motherhood was not for the faint of heart. I’d chosen this path with my eyes wide open. But back then, I’d had no clue just how mentally and physically exhausting it would be.
The cooking and the cleaning and the helping with homework were expected.
But the mental load? No one prepares mothers for that work.
The constant worry and fear for our children.
The realization that we’ll never sleep soundly again because there are pieces of our hearts and souls walking around this earth.
It’s the crux of motherhood. The constant hustle. It’s not enough to spend every spare minute making what we hope are the best decisions for our children. Those decisions are endless, and it’s impossible to know until years later whether they’re the right ones or the wrong ones.
So in addition to packing lunches, helping with homework, mediating disputes, and keeping track of doctor’s appointments and developmental milestones, I have to manage the daily doses of guilt and anxiety and uncertainty that I’m fucking it all up.
Happy Monday to me.
I headed to the twins’ room. Thank fuck my girls were self-sufficient in most areas. Yes, they were eight going on thirty-five and growing up too quickly, but I wasn’t sure I’d make it if I had to micromanage them. They always had clean uniforms thanks to Beckett’s laundry system, and they got themselves dressed and washed up without much fuss.
But the hair. Both girls had long, blond hair like mine. And thanks to YouTube, they now required elaborate hairstyles every day. I had lost so many hours of my life watching hair tutorials.
“Mom, do we have enough time for the bubble braids?” Phoebe asked, handing me a comb and a pack of those annoyingly tiny elastic bands.
“Sure.” We did not. But these moments were fleeting, so I’d hold tight to every one I could. “Collette, go brush your teeth and fill the water bottles while I do Phoebe’s hair. You’re riding to school with Auntie Liv and Uncle Beckett today, remember?”
Phoebe gave me a dramatic eye roll. “Oh, we remember. Bossman ran through the schedule ten times last night. We have to leave at seven forty-five, and Charlie has mapped out the route to school.” On mornings like these, I was glad Beckett didn’t mind letting us borrow his car and driver for quick school runs.
I worked the comb through her hair and got to work while I mentally ran through my own schedule for the day.
On Mondays, I was typically slated to attend first session. First session in the Boston Municipal Court was best described as a zoo. Mondays were particularly insane because everyone who had been arrested over the weekend had to appear.
As prosecutors, we rotated, presenting the indictments and standing up to represent the government as charges were formally filed.
It was thankless, but it was never boring. Even though I had a decade of experience in the legal world, I was the newbie on the team, so I’d been stuck with Mondays. Thankfully, a colleague was gracious enough to cover for me today so I could meet with Enzo.
Speaking of that inconveniently handsome villain, he was due to arrive at any moment so we could go over the new plans. So far, he’d been annoyingly professional, even if he hadn’t prepared a PowerPoint like the kids expected. After a string of bad luck, shitty contractors, and lots of remorse, I was hopeful that this really could work. Not that I’d tell him that. Hell no. He’d have to earn my respect by getting stuff done.
But it felt like there was possibility here. When I inherited the house, I knew it needed work, but I had no idea how much. I had a nice chunk of money set aside from the sale of my townhome, but I’d learned the hard way that the older the house, the more costly the repairs. The roof repair alone was the price of a very comfortable mid-sized SUV. If not for Beckett, we’d still be waiting on that one.
On top of the unexpected costs, a string of questionable contractors—some marginally skilled, some corrupt, and some downright stupid—turned what I thought would be a six-month renovation project into a year of overwhelming stress and anxiety.
Not to mention the crushing responsibility of making sure the house was safe for all the kids that weighed on my shoulders. We’d had some moments, but most of the major issues had been resolved.
I just needed this to work. And as much as I’d love to see Enzo fail, I’d put aside my own baggage to have a finished home, especially with Willow’s impending arrival.
Collette approached and handed Phoebe her backpack. Phoebe stood with a smile and kissed me on the cheek. I soaked in the affection. One day soon, they’d do what most kids did and withdraw from me, so I’d take what I could get as often as I could. When they were little, I felt like my body wasn’t my own. I had no personal space during the day or at night. One of the girls always needed my attention, needed a hug, needed comfort in the dark. And, shit, did I miss it. I missed the snuggles and feeling needed.
Collette got herself situated in front of me, and I got to work braiding her hair next. Even though they were technically fraternal twins, they could be hard to tell apart. Phoebe had a few freckles, and Collette was left-handed. But otherwise, they were scarily close to identical.
They played it up to their advantage too. They got a sick satisfaction out of fooling the world by dressing alike and wearing the same hairstyles. I supposed I could blame myself for their mischievousness. I never could pass up proving my superiority, and they’d definitely inherited that trait.
Mostly, they were harmless. And my friends had them figured out for the most part, but once in a while, they succeeded. More often with the men who’d recently moved in. Being an only child, I loved watching their relationship bloom. I had spent my life aching for a sister. Ironically, now, at thirty-five, I had three of them.
“Do you have a trial today?” Collette asked as I worked on her hair.
“Not today. I have a sentencing in the afternoon, but no trials until next week. You know how it goes, though. They always plead out at the last minute.”
“You’re totally gonna get that guy, aren’t you?”
I tried to suppress the grin that spread across my face. “My job isn’t to get anyone. Remember, my job is to ensure that every single person gets justice. That means treating everyone fairly and making sure the law is followed. If the person is guilty, then justice means they go to prison. Not every time, but most of the time. And if the person is not guilty, they go free.”
“But why does it matter if you follow the law if they’re already guilty?”
I couldn’t help but chuckle at their naivety. Usually they spoke to me like college professors, so this was a welcome change.
“Because society requires that everyone receive equal treatment under the law. We’ve talked about how the constitution applies to everyone, even those who have committed crimes, right?”
“Oh God, not another lecture about the Constitution.” Phoebe moaned.
“You started it,” Collette snapped at her sister, almost yanking the braid from my hand. “Remember when she made us memorize all the amendments? I don’t want to go back to those days.”
Phoebe nodded sagely. Apparently, my zest for constitutional law was not appreciated by my offspring.
Probably anxious to change the subject, Phoebe got to work picking up the hair supplies. “Mom, are you going to get a husband?”
All the air left my lungs like I’d been punched in the gut. Jesus. What a question for a Monday morning.
“Of course not,” I quipped, smoothing a hand down Collette’s finished braids. “And do you remember why?”
They looked at one another, then turned to me in unison and spoke as one. “Romantic relationships with men are a needless drain on your divine feminine life force.”
“Correct.” I nodded once. “Because I have better things to do.”
“We know. Your precious moments on this earth are better spent in the pursuit of knowledge, achievements, and making the world a better place,” Collette recited in a robotic voice.
