Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Baby’s First Year.
I wonder idly if she’s not used to receiving gifts or if it’s more the nature of this gift that seems to mean so much. The fact that it’s for our baby.
I’m gonna spoil her so much. The thought gives me such a kick. No more Tube journeys for her. I’m gonna get her a fancy car. A driver if she wants. Holidays. Jewelry . . . except she doesn’t wear it. Fuck it, I’m gonna buy it anyway.
I can’t wait to see what life has in store for us.
“Morning. Afternoon? Haven’t checked my phone yet.” Fuck knows what time it is as I wrap my arms around her and press a kiss to her head. Before my noisy stomach makes my feet move in the direction of the fridge.
“You hungry?” I throw over my shoulder as I pull the door wide. “I feel like bacon and eggs. Fancy bacon and eggs?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Have you already eaten?” I rub an itch on my sternum, then begin to rifle through the shelves. “I’m starved.” As usual. “I could eat the hand of God,” I mutter, ducking to better see the lower shelves.
“Matt.”
“Hmm?” Where’s the feckin’ bacon? Cheese. Brie? Nah. Red Leicester. A bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwich with lashings of brown sauce. Yes, sounds like just the thing. My guts rumble again.
“Matt,” she calls, a little stronger now. “We need to talk.”
My shoulders stiffen, and the block of cheese hits the glass shelf with a little thud. Nothing good ever came from hearing that sentence.
Fuck, no. We are not having this conversation. We are not in this place. Not after last night. This morning? It’s just a misunderstanding, my brain supplies as I shove the bacon back.
A trick of the memory, of the past. It’s got to be. Until I turn and get a look at her.
My heart sinks. She’s been crying, her eyes red and her skin blotchy. But the most telling fact of all is how she can’t look me in the face.
Bottles and jars rattle as the fridge door slams closed behind me, my feet moving me across the kitchen as though on wheels.
“What is it?” I say, rounding the stupid island, my hands finding her shoulders tense. “What’s going on?” What the fuck did I miss?
“Your mother sent me a gift.” She sniffs. “A care package, I guess you’d call it.” Her hand lifts as though by invisible puppet strings as she points to the couch.
“Right?” But this is far from right. It doesn’t make any sense. What the hell did she send?
“It arrived this morning. She included a tin of tea. Tea leaves. And I hate tea, by the way.”
“Then . . . why are you always drinking the stuff?”
“And a tiny knitted cardigan she said she made herself. A matinee coat, she called it.”
“Yeah, she knits.” What the fuck did I say that for?
“It’s so beautiful.” Her eyes turn all watery.
“Okay.” Is the idea of family freaking her out?
“And there was a cake.”
“She likes to bake. And feed people.”
“And pictures of you and Letty and your brothers when you were all small. In green fields and gardens, all wrapped up in sweaters and scarves. And others where you’re all as brown as berries and on the beach.”
“We had a good childhood.” And I’m so sorry you didn’t get the same.
“She said they’d help me see family likenesses, when the time comes. Does Flip have your nose or Hugo’s? Does she have your cheekbones? My eyes? My father’s smile?”
Ah, fuck.
“Not that I’d know.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say quickly as I rub her arms. “Doesn’t matter who he looks like. As long as he doesn’t look like Hugo,” I add flippantly. “Because that fucker got some nose on him.”
“Some of these things she sent she must’ve kept since your birth. Mementos she’s held on to for thirty-eight years.” She wipes the back of her hand under her nose. “Can you imagine that?”
“She’s got an attic full of memories, darlin’. She’s just that kind of person.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is loving. A perfect mom.”
“Ah, love. There isn’t any such thing.” I stroke my thumb across her cheek. “You’ll make mistakes—we both will. And Ma will be the first to tell you she has too.”
“Do you know what my mother gave me when I left?”
I give a quick shake of my head. Because I don’t think I want to know. As unfair as that seems.
“A good riddance. A fuck you. And in the place of a farewell, I got ‘I didn’t want you anyway.’”
“Ah, darlin’. I’m sorry.” The hurt in her eyes pulls at my insides, twisting them into knots. Because what in the name of actual fuck? She said she’d had a bad childhood, but this has narcissism written all over it. What kind of . . . well, those aren’t the words of anyone who deserves the title of mother.