Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 157175 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157175 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
All angles, except Jacob’s favourite. Ava’s face falls, along with my heart, and Maddie gives her brother a quick kick in the shin. ‘Stupid,’ she snipes.
I die a little on the inside when Ava looks across at me, her eyes watering. ‘It’s nothing.’ I shoot to the cupboard and snatch down Jacob’s Pop-Tarts, quickly shoving two in the toaster. ‘See? Done.’
‘I’m sorry, Mum.’ My boy’s face is so remorseful, and I’m torn between comforting him or going to Ava. My decision is made for me when Ava hastily escapes the kitchen. My shoulders drop, and I look to the kids as they watch their mum rush away, her hands wiping at her face. Fucking hell. After a quick, reassuring rub of their heads, I go after Ava, finding her in the downstairs bathroom snatching tissue from the roll.
‘Ava, baby.’ I step in and close the door behind me. ‘It’s no big deal.’ My heart cracks clean in two when she turns to face me, her bottom lip quivering, tears rolling down her cheeks.
‘I don’t even know what my son’s favourite breakfast is.’ Her voice cracks and her chin drops. ‘What kind of mother am I?’
That right there sends me into the realms of crazy mad before I can stop it, my hand reaching forward and snatching away the tissue that’s on its way to her face. ‘You stop that now,’ I order, more harshly than I meant. Her wide eyes watch me warily, the tears still streaming down her cheeks. Crowding her, I grab her face and push my forehead to hers, drilling into her with pissed-off eyes. ‘Never, ever, doubt your abilities as a mother, do you hear me?’ She nods. ‘Good.’ I push my lips to hers and kiss her hard. ‘Now wipe those eyes and get your arse back in that kitchen.’
‘Okay.’ She doesn’t argue or protest, sniffing back her emotion and pulling herself together. ‘Can I have the tissue back?’
‘No.’ I take my thumbs and drag them across her cheeks, clearing up the evidence of her tears. ‘Off you go.’ Turning her by her shoulders, I walk her back to the kitchen, only releasing her after I’ve squeezed a little reassurance into her with a flex of my hands.
She nods in understanding and goes to the cupboard to get a plate for Jacob, taking his Pop-Tarts from the toaster and sliding them across the island to him. ‘Thanks, Mum.’ He bites his lip, flicking his eyes to me nervously.
‘What?’ Ava asks, looking to me, too.
‘Nothing.’ I scoot over to the fridge and grab the peanut butter, handing it to Jacob, who proceeds to smother it over his Pop-Tarts.
‘Oh.’ Ava’s shoulders sag as she watches, a grimace growing across her face. ‘Of course he smothers his breakfast in peanut butter.’
‘You’re disgusting,’ Maddie snorts as she leaves the kitchen. ‘I’m going to get showered.’
‘And I’m going to make lunchboxes.’ Ava swirls around and scans the cupboards.
‘Top left,’ I remind her, going about finishing the coffee I started. When I’m done, I take a seat next to my boy and open my mouth for him to share, smiling as he pushes the last bit of his breakfast into my mouth. ‘Go get a shower,’ I tell him, and he’s off quickly, leaving me and Ava alone in the kitchen.
I look across to my wife, thoughtful as I devour the jar of peanut butter. I’ve been so transfixed on all the major things she needs to learn that the simple things, such as the kids’ favourite breakfast, never crossed my mind as something to get upset about. So trivial. Yet so eye-opening. One minute I’m high on hope, feeling the love and feelings pouring out of my wife, the next I’m being brought back down to earth by something stupid like Pop-Tarts. But, as I keep reminding myself, this is a marathon. Not a sprint.
I take a sip of my coffee as I watch Ava standing before the open fridge. She’s still. Staring ahead. I frown and set my mug down, watching her shoulders begin to jump up and down discreetly. Concerned, I get up and go to her, turning her around until I have her face. Tears are gushing from her eyes, streaking down her cheeks and splashing her T-shirt. ‘I don’t know what they like in their lunchboxes, either,’ she sobs, each word a helpless croak.
‘Hey.’ I lower my face to hers, nuzzling, coating my cheeks in her tears, too. We’re in this together, stress, love, despair . . . and tears. Even if I’m not crying them, they’re mine, too. I don’t get the chance to pick her up; she grabs me first, throwing her arms around my neck and practically crawling up my front. What can I do? There’s no easy fix. It’s just a matter of time and that fucking thing called patience.