Page 65 of Child of Mine

It’s when we get back to my kitchen that things fall apart.

I just didn’t think about how unsafe cooking could be until I put Lilah on a stool next to me at the counter and notice how small her hands are. How vulnerable her skin seems.

“My mom lets me use the big knife,” Lilah asserts when I say that I’ll be doing the chopping.

“I can stir,” she complains when I insist on doing the actual stir frying, worried that she’d get burned by popping oil.

I try to distract her by getting her to set the table and even feed Ribsy, but by the time we sit down to eat, patience has run out for both of us.

When she grabs the hottest of the hot sauces from the counter and I suggest that she might want to try a different one, her brows come together and she says, “I told you I like it spicy,” before dumping half the bottle on her dinner.

When I tell her that it’s way too much, she shoves a forkful into her mouth. She chews once before spitting the food back onto her plate.

Unfortunately, I explode with, “Dammit, Lilah, I told you not to use that sauce! Now you’ve wasted it.”

She tries to prove me wrong by stuffing more food in her mouth, to the point that she starts choking. Panicking, I pour her a glass of milk, but before I can give it to her, she runs to the bathroom and throws up on the floor. And then bursts into tears.

I try to clean up her and the floor while she sobs that she wants to go home. By the time I get her settled, the food is cold and we’ve both lost our appetite. Feeling like a complete failure, I bundle her back into the truck and drive back to Bella’s. By the time we get there, Lilah has fallen asleep. I manage to get her out of her seat and up the back stairs to the apartment without waking her, so when Bella answers the door, I whisper, “Can you show me her room?”

She nods, and I follow her up another set of stairs. Bella opens the door to a little room tucked under the eaves of the big old house, then hustles to move stuffed animals and turn down the covers on the twin bed.

“Did she brush her teeth?” she whispers.

I wince and shake my head.

Bella frowns. “Just sit her down. I’ll get her in her jammies and take her to the bathroom.”

When I whisper an apology, she hesitates but then says, “Don’t worry. We’ve done this before.”

* * *

BELLA

I just spent the night with nothing to do for the first time in six years. Mom was out with friends, I didn’t have a show, and Henry took Lilah to his place. So I cleaned the kitchen. Took everything out of every cabinet, scrubbed the interiors, threw away expired cans of pumpkin puree and chickpeas, as well as plastic containers missing lids, and then put everything away again.

But I can’t do that every time he takes her.

When they show up at the back door, Lilah’s asleep in his arms, and I’m suddenly so angry I can’t meet his gaze. Angry that he’s taken my job from me. Angry that he hasn’t been here for her whole life. Angry that he is here now.

As I get Lilah ready for bed, she sleepily whines about dinner being too spicy and something else about Ribsy. After I’ve tucked her in, reassured that she still needs me, I make myself face him. Before I can apologize for snapping at him—it’s not his fault that I’m not able to deal with sharing my daughter—he says the worst thing possible.

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

My apology goes out the window. “What do you mean? You can’t quit on her now. It’ll break her heart.”

He rubs a hand over a face that’s aged ten years in one night. “I fucked up.”

“What happened?”

He launches into a story that involves a temper tantrum, a bottle of hot sauce, vomit, and tears. I can’t help but laugh. “Welcome to being a parent, dude.” I point upstairs. “She survived. You’ll survive. You do your best and move on.”

When he meets my gaze, his expression is dialed to dumbfounded. “You’re not mad at me?”

“Well, I was mad at you.”

“Because…?”

Be honest,Izzy urges.

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