Total pages in book: 186
Estimated words: 178688 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 893(@200wpm)___ 715(@250wpm)___ 596(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 178688 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 893(@200wpm)___ 715(@250wpm)___ 596(@300wpm)
Once I’ve finished eating and downed my coffee, I take a shower. The birds sing loudly outside, and I smile as I look around my cottage in the backyard of my childhood home. My two best friends, Katie and Everleigh, like to tease me about how it looks like something out of a Disney cartoon. It’s quaint and cozy, and all it’s missing is a fairy-tale story based around it.
As I wash my body and hair, I think about how I need to start packing soon, and the thought of moving out makes me sick to my stomach. For the past twelve years, I’ve made this place my own while leaving little parts of it that honor my mother. It gave me all the privacy I needed after I turned eighteen, and my dad was glad I was still close if I needed anything.
Before my mom passed, the Snow White cottage was her painting sanctuary. I don’t remember a lot about her, and most of my memories come from pictures and watching old family video tapes. She died in a car accident when I was eight, and there’s been a gaping hole in my heart ever since. My father raised me and did his best to make sure I didn’t feel neglected by not having two parents. He always did a great job putting me first, but it never fully replaced not having my mom around. During those formative years of boys and going through puberty, I craved a woman’s perspective.
Jerry Reid is a great man, but he knows jack shit about cramps and what type of pads I needed or what meds to take. Though he tried his best. Asking him to take me to a gynecologist for birth control to help regulate my periods was another defining moment of my teenage years I don’t care to think about.
I have many happy memories here with friends and my dad helping me plant in the garden. I’ve taken care of it for years, and now, the thought of leaving scares me.
I know it makes sense to move in with Robert, but I want to spend the time I have left enjoying this place before the wedding is here. It’s the only time I feel her presence and super close to my mother.
Katie, Everleigh, and I have spent countless nights on my couch drinking wine and watching The Bachelor. It became a weekly girls’ night tradition. When I’m married, I don’t know how often we’ll get together. I don’t even want to think about it.
My mother’s paintings are hung on the walls. I love waking up to them and running my fingers across the frames. Though Robert has encouraged me to pack a few to hang in his house, it doesn’t feel right to move them. This cottage is where her creativity blossomed. She’d set up her easel, then open the patio doors that face the little garden in the backyard. She’d paint the sycamore and red oak trees, squirrels, and blue jays at the feeders.
After she died, my father maintained the garden and even added a few birdhouses. While I didn’t get her creative gene and can’t paint to save my life, I understand why she loved this space so much. The view is awe-inspiring and feels like a little slice of heaven. Perhaps it’s why I haven’t been able to make the commitment to leave.
Once I’ve finished getting ready, I grab my things, then lock up. The garage isn’t that far, and even though we could carpool, my dad always starts working before I arrive so he doesn’t get behind. Lately, he’s been doing everything on his own, and it’s no secret he needs help in the shop. We open at eight, and I make it with ten minutes to spare.
“Good morning, Daddy.” I open the door that separates the waiting area and the shop. I don’t see him, but his truck is parked in the back, so I know he’s here somewhere.
“Mornin’, sweetie.”
I finally see his legs sticking out from under a car. “What time did you get here?”
“Seven. Hey, can you call Mrs. Betsy Anne and let her know she can pick up her Oldsmobile at noon?”
“Can do. Anything else you need right away?”
“Maybe some coffee for your old man?”
I grin and shake my head. “Of course. Let me brew some, and I’ll bring you a cup.”
“That’s why you’re my favorite daughter.” He rolls out from underneath and smirks.
“Nice try. I’m your only daughter.”
I start the coffee maker and straighten up the cups and napkins on the table for the customers. Main Street Bakery, a few blocks down, delivers fresh pastries every morning at eight and will be here any minute.
As soon as I unlock the front door and flip the sign, the phone goes off. Minutes later, Mrs. Wright comes in with a dozen donuts and chats for a moment about the weather before leaving. I deliver my father a cup of steaming hot coffee and a chocolate eclair before going back to the front desk.