Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 145231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 581(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 581(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
One where we don’t talk for days at a time because we’re busy.
And I know better than anyone how busy Patton is.
His job is his life and right now, even on a Sunday, he’s probably working. Or getting coffee from that fancy place down the road.
Never mind the fact that he sometimes gets me some coffee.
Groaning, I toss the phone aside and try to muster up the energy to climb out of bed.
It’s better that Arlo spends some time in his old home and old life. Patton’s fairy-tale palace is a dream, not a reality for us.
Don’t get me wrong. I want Arlo to have the world, but that’s not the world—that’s a parallel universe no five-year-old should have to digest.
He’s awake when I get up, though, sitting at the kitchen table with an overflowing bowl of cereal I left out last night.
“I did it, Mommy!” he tells me proudly as he digs in. There’s milk splattered around his bowl.
“Have you got enough there, big guy?” I ask, grabbing a dishrag. It’s still so early the sun has barely risen, though that just means it’s around seven this time of year. “I was going to make you pancakes.”
“Pancakes?” In his excitement, he hits the spoon and cereal flies everywhere.
I stare at the milk slowly dripping on the floor, trying to shoot him a scolding look before I break down and laugh.
If we were at Patton’s, in his gleaming modern kitchen, he’d just chuckle and wipe it away with a damp cloth and a joke. Here, on my own, it feels more like I’m on trial.
Another chore.
Another mom dilemma where I have to pretend I’m a shining example of a human being and not an immature gremlin.
Another cute, stinging moment alone.
What else is new? Rinse and repeat.
“I love pancakes,” Arlo tells me, like I’m not well aware. They’re at the top of the list for bribing him to start a good day, up there with pizza and ice cream. “Are you gonna make them now, Mommy? Can we have banana and choc-lit chip?”
“First, I need to clean up the mess you’ve made. Then we’ll see.”
He has the grace to look a little ashamed, but he perks up quickly. “That won’t take you long.”
No, it won’t, but it sure as heck would go faster with another person here to ease the burden.
I hate these thoughts.
I hate my brain for having them.
Just like I hate the way I’m constantly comparing my past mistakes to Patton’s life on a gold pedestal.
Deep down, I don’t think I’m worthy.
And I also have the awareness to know I’m not because I’m the only one thinking it. The Rorys were incredibly nice to me, or else money taught them to hide their mean streak way better than my parents ever did.
Still.
It feels like it can’t last.
Someone or something has to come along the minute I’m settled in and burst the bubble—and there’s a good possibility that something is me.
It’s not like I’m new to self-sabotage.
“Where’s my tablet? I can’t find it!” Arlo asks loudly as I wipe down the chair leg and catch the last milk splattering the floor.
“I don’t know, sweetie.”
“Help find it, Mommy. Please?” The please is tacked on as a question, but at least it’s there. That took long enough to get him to memorize.
“I can’t do both right now. I only have two hands,” I tell him. “Have you checked under your bed?”
While Arlo pops up and zooms around the house, searching high and low, I get started on the pancakes. I really hope the tablet turns up. He’ll be sad and bored out of his wits for days if it doesn’t.
If Patton was here, he’d help with the cooking or the tablet hunt, I’m sure.
Instead, I’m tripping over my son and his zoomies while I crack eggs into a bowl.
“We’ll look again later, hon,” I say after he’s given up. His bottom lip juts out, endearing and frustrating at the same time. “So do you think Patman’s your favorite superhero?”
“He can’t climb buildings and he doesn’t have laser eyes… but he’s still cool.”
I smile. “What’s so cool about him?”
“He’s rich! He sails around the world and fights bad guys. He’s named after a famous general.” He strikes a karate pose and chops the air. “His car’s pretty cool too.”
I’m not sure what he means by fighting bad guys. But there’s no denying the rest is true, and it pours out of my little boy in a hero-worship rush.
God.
“Some great heroes have sad stories, you know,” I say, smoothing the batter. “Like Batman. His parents died when he was young, didn’t they?”
“Yeah.” Arlo shrugs, unbothered.
I need to be more blunt, so I set the bowl down and ask, “Arlo, do you ever wish you had a daddy?”
His face snaps up to look at me and he frowns.