Page 57 of The Last Thing
Sometimes I feel like a bad feminist because that’s what I’d love to be—a stay-at-home mom, not a cheating-at-home wife. But feminism is all about women having opportunities and freedom of choice. I’m allowed to want to stay home with my kid. On my terms. Obviously, I’d want to have my own things and find things outside of being a parent that fulfill me and bring me joy, but I’d love being a stay-at-home mom. I just have to figure out how to finance that.
Sophia’s bright smile catches my eye from up the walkway, and she pauses to give a hug to a friend and say goodbye. That makes my heart happy. I want her to form those kinds of bonds. Though I’m closest with Frannie, Kennedy, Justin, and now the football boys, I had my bestie Lena growing up. She was the first to leave me when she moved to Oregon after high school,but she’s happy there, and we settle for monthly video calls to maintain our friendship.
I turn off the music as Sophia gets to the car. “Are you okay climbing in by yourself?”
“Yep!” She hops right in, drops her bag on the floor, and buckles herself up.
“Ready to go?”
“Yes. Let’s go home.”
“So, how was your day?” I carefully pull out of the spot I’m in, hand on my horn in case someone tries to cut me off. People are maniacs in the school pick-up line.
“It was good. I had grilled cheese for lunch!”
“Yum. That’s one of my favorites. Who was that you were hugging when you left?”
“Oh, that was Maria. She’s my best friend.”
I put on a fake pout in the rearview mirror. “Replacing me already?”
She laughs. “No. You’re more than my best friend.”
“Oh? What am I then?”
As I come to a stoplight, I glance in the mirror and look at her contemplative face.
“I don’t know exactly, but you’re… like family.”
Oh, my heart.
“I feel the same way, kid.”
She laughs again. “That’s what Daddy calls me.”
She’s quiet for the next couple of minutes until I get back to the parking lot across from our building.
As I help her down, she looks up at me tentatively. “Are you and Daddy friends?”
I glance down at her. “Yes. We are.”
“Are you more than friends?”
Shit.
I don’t want to lie to her, but telling her I’m pregnant with her half-sibling and crawling into her dad’s bed at night isn’t the right call.
“We’re friends.”
When the road is clear, we cross the street and head inside the building.
“But do you want to be more than friends with Daddy? Because sometimes he looks at you… the way he looks at me. Kind of. Not exactly.”
I pause at the apartment door and meet her eyes. “What do you mean?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. He always looks like he’s really happy you’re here. He doesn’t look at anyone else like that. Besides me.”
Damn, she’s perceptive. It’s a good thing I’ve been able to hide my puking from her, otherwise she probably would’ve figured out I’m pregnant by now.
