Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“Thirty-four dollars and seventy-eight cents,” the cashier says.
“Mommy,” Jordan cries, upset over me putting the cake mix and frosting back. “The cake is important. Please. Da—”
“Jordan, stop,” I say, giving her my ‘mom voice’ that rarely makes an appearance.
Tears prick her eyes, and I hate myself for not being able to give her everything she wants and needs. But if it’s between feeding her dinner and making a cake, I have to choose dinner.
I look in my purse for any hidden bills, but of course, there aren’t any. “Umm, can you put back the…” I look at the groceries, trying to figure out what else we don’t need, when my eyes land on the fruit snacks. They weren’t on sale, but Jordan begged for them because a little girl in her class had them in her lunch box today. There’s shampoo and conditioner. I need to wash my hair, but… “Can you put the conditioner back, please?”
The cashier nods and swipes it back across the scanner. “Thirty, twenty-three,” she says with a look of sympathy.
Someone in line sighs, and I cringe. “Umm, I’m sorry,” I mutter as hot tears fill my lids. I should’ve paid better attention. It’s just been a rough couple of weeks.
Jordan caught the flu, and I had to take off work to be home with her since I didn’t have anyone else to watch her. Then, she passed it to me, forcing me to take more time off work—which meant having no money coming in for almost two weeks.
And to top it off, the anniversary of Trent’s death is coming up, along with his birthday. My brain is a scattered mess, and money is tight. Despite my rent being reasonable, Jordan starting at a new school meant needing school clothes and supplies. It also took longer than I thought to find a job, and by the time I finally found one—at a cute café called “The Busy Bean”—my savings had dwindled down to nothing, leaving us living paycheck to paycheck.
“Here, I got you,” a masculine voice says from behind me.
I glance back and I’m met with the most mesmerizing eyes. They’re hazel, but the brown, green, and gold are brighter than I’ve ever seen. So full of life.
He extends his hand with the five-dollar bill as I quickly take in his features. Messy brown hair, strong, stubbled jawline, and a tan that’s uncommon for northerners due to the months of frigid winter. But what holds my attention is the soft smile splayed upon his lips. It’s not a look of pity or sympathy, just a genuine smile, silently telling me it’s okay.
I want to shake my head and tell him thanks but no, thanks, but I also really want to end this embarrassing ordeal, so I nod in appreciation and take it from him, then hand it to the cashier.
“Mommy, can we get the cake mix, please?” Jordan hiccups as tears flow down her cheeks.
To the outside world, she looks like a spoiled five-year-old who wants cake, but what nobody standing in this line knows is that the cake is a tradition. We make one every year in honor of Trent. He died four days before his birthday, and he loved vanilla cake with chocolate frosting.
It used to drive Silvia crazy because she chose to mourn his death and birthday by crying and being angry, spouting horrible things at me. But that’s not how I want to raise my daughter.
After we have cake, I open the photo album I made for Jordan and go through the pictures of the three of us. Retelling stories she was too young to remember, so she’ll never forget how much her dad loved her.
“Not today,” I tell her, taking the change from the cashier.
“But Daddy loved that cake,” Jordan sobs, shattering my heart.
“Thank you,” I mutter to the man behind me, refusing to make eye contact. This entire situation is embarrassing enough as it is.
I push the cart out of the store as Jordan continues to cry silently, her shoulders shaking and her eyes puffy and red.
“Ladybug, I’m sorry.”
I lift her out of the shopping cart and place her on her feet so we can start our trek home. Two days ago, the vehicle Ron and Silvia let me take was towed away since I was late paying them. When I called to tell them, not realizing it was Silvia who had it towed, she informed me that being late in the real world meant having a car repossessed. I tried to explain that Jordan and I had been sick, and without getting paid for almost two weeks, I was a little behind on paying the bills. She didn’t want to hear it.
Not having a car means having to walk everywhere. It’s not too bad now, in the high forties, but it’ll only get worse. Unlike Boston, Christmas Valley doesn’t have public transportation. Thankfully, the home we’re renting is only five blocks from the center of town, where almost everything is located—the store, the café I work at, and Jordan’s school.