Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 60530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 303(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 303(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
I’m busy whispering the same words to the monitor when the sound of the front door opening forces me to whip around. I don’t expect to see an upset Robert striding back in. He rips the lid off the trash can and reaches in, pulling out the cash that’s now dirtied with old breast milk and Lord knows what else I threw in there earlier today.
Even with his face scrunched in disgust, he picks out every bill as I stare in shock. “I’m not going to make you pick it out of the trash,” he comments, his voice even but low. Wiping under my eyes I watch his face turn sour as he asks, “What the hell is this?”
“Bad milk.”
“Bad milk?” I don’t know if his question is serious or not as he drops his arm to nearly the bottom of the pail.
“Apparently whatever I’m eating is giving her gas,” I confess to him, “because I can’t even feed my little girl without hurting her.” Watching a baby struggle with pain and knowing it’s your fault … that’s a part of motherhood I wasn’t prepared for. It hurts more than I could have ever imagined.
“You aren’t hurting her,” he says, consoling me the second the admission leaves my lips, and I can’t stand the look in his eyes or the comfort in his voice, so I turn away. “You’re a good mom,” he tells me as I do everything I can to keep my composure. I don’t know what made him come back in, but I wouldn’t have ever guessed he’d come back to clean the money he threw in the trash.
He moves to the sink and I watch his broad shoulders flex as Robert washes the bills, rinsing off the old pumped milk I had to throw away. The faucet squeaks as he shuts it off, the cash laying on a paper towel to dry. With a palm on either side of the sink, his tall form hunches over.
“I don’t want to fight, Mags.” Hearing him say my name and then noting the pain in his voice does something to me. Misery loves company but my God when it gets what it’s after, it calls on regret to save its soul.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him and I mean it. I don’t know what I’m doing; all I know is that everything feels heavy and like I can’t hold it up. The trembling of my shoulders as I let out a heavy sob is lessened when Robert wraps his arms around me.
Rocking me gently, he kisses the top of my head and I wish he wouldn’t. Because everything in me wants to lean against him and rest.
“I’m not going to take it,” he says.
“Then don’t kiss me. Please. Stop helping me.”
“You need help, though,” he states matter-of-factly. I’ve lost everything in the last year, including my pride.
With a shuddering breath I push away from him, upset that I’ve sunk so low. I don’t recognize who I am and I even hate myself a little.
The baby monitor flares to life with a wail from my baby girl and it’s all I can do to ask Robert to leave. To let me be so I can go back to her.
“I’ll get her,” he tells me and then leaves me standing there to let his words sink in. I’m so tired, I can barely comprehend what he’s said. I’ve been by myself all day with her and there’s never a break.
I didn’t know it’d be this hard.
I listen to his steady strides down the hall. I hear him tell my baby girl to hush and go back to sleep as if he’s done it a million times before. She calms down in his arms as he sways her back and forth, patting her bottom and shushing gently. With the baby monitor in my hand, I watch him comfort my daughter better than I have all day and it dims any anger I have toward him for starting the fall of dominoes that led to this point.
When she stops crying, it’s peaceful for a moment and I’m grateful. I’m so grateful that every wall I’ve put up comes crashing down.
Magnolia
Present day
Guilt doesn’t mix well with morning coffee. Even still, I gulp down the French vanilla and pretend everything’s easy to swallow. The regrets, the uncertainties … all of it.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Renee questions and startles me, dragging her feet along the floor as she slowly shuffles into the kitchen. A bit of mascara from yesterday lingers under her eyes and she rubs it away, yawning as she does.
“Barely,” I comment, rubbing the tiredness from under my eyes as well. Just seeing her eases the tension that’s wreaked havoc on every fiber of me since last night when Robert pulled out that velvet box. “I didn’t expect you to be up so early.”