Page 13 of Sexted By Santa
“Okay, kitchen. We’ll talk while I make breakfast.”
“But—”
“No arguments. You need to eat.” Though we’d calibrated her pump for another day, her blood sugar was a touch low. She needed a boost or she’d begin to feel lightheaded, fatigued, irritable—or possibly all three. The joys of diabetes. “I’ll pour you an orange juice to drink now, and then we’ll start cooking. How does scrambled eggs sound? Toast?”
“Fine, I guess.”
“Pancakes with chocolate chips?”
She brightened. “Better.”
“Okay. I know you want to prove you can manage yourself, so I’ll get started on the pancakes. You’re in charge of setting your carbs to determine the insulin dose before eating.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You’re not going to check it behind me?”
I hesitated. I did want to check it. But if she was off, I could adjust it before any real damage was done. “I won’t.”
She threw her arms around me. “Thank you, Daddy! If I do this right, can I spend the night with Madison?”
I should have known this would come up. “One step at a time, Tori. Don’t push me.”
“Okay!” She skipped ahead to the kitchen and took a seat at our small wrought-iron bistro table. With just the two of us, we didn’t need much—and without a formal dining room it had to fit into a little kitchen nook.
I poured an orange juice and gave it to Tori, who obediently drank it down while I got out the ingredients for breakfast: pancake mix and chocolate chips from the pantry, and milk, eggs, and bacon from the refrigerator.
I couldn’t offer Tori an easy life. I couldn’t take away her diabetes or give her a mom—or another dad, since I’d discovered I was bisexual back when I made the effort to date. Hell, I couldn’t even give her the most advanced insulin system tech that would reassure us both and give her more freedom. But I made up for it in the ways that I could. One of those ways was making her breakfast every day. Shirley had given me a ton of help, teaching me the basics and lending me cookbooks when Tori was still a preschooler. By now, I had a pretty firm grasp in the kitchen, but I’d never be the type to cook from scratch.
“So,” I said as I grabbed a large bowl and began mixing ingredients. “Madison’s house looks like it’s out of a magazine, huh?”
“Yeah, it’s really nice.” Tori swung her legs, looking bored.
“Why don’t you come line a baking sheet with foil for me?” I’d found that making bacon in the oven was easier because I could focus on the eggs. It also gave me a more consistent cook.
Tori heaved a sigh. “Okay.”
She’d gone through her cooking with dad phase at age six. Apparently, she was over it.
“I know our house isn’t all done up for the holidays, but there are more important things than looking perfect. Or being perfect,” I added. “We do our best, right?”
Tori shrugged as she got out the foil and tore off a piece to line the pan. “I guess.”
“Doing your best is always good enough.”
She frowned, looking as if she couldn’t quite understand my point. “Does this mean we can’t decorate?”
“No. It means that we might decorate our own way. Our house might not look like it belongs in a magazine. But that doesn’t make it a bad house. It doesn’t mean we aren’t as good as other people.”
“I know, Daddy. But you haven’t dusted inforever.”
With everything going on in my life—a full-time job, overtime shifts and odd jobs for extra cash where I could get them, Tori’s doctor’s appointments, errands, meals to prepare—dusting wasn’t even on my radar.
“Well, I guess we have a plan for this afternoon then.”
Tori brightened until I added, “You can do the dusting while I vacuum.”
