Page 30 of Only Mine
“Home sweet home.” I force a smile as I unbuckle Ivy.
She slides out without comment. Inside, the house feels too big, too quiet.
Making dinner becomes a necessary distraction. I findchicken breasts and pasta, deciding on a simple lemon-herb chicken pasta dish. Ivy pulls her little step stool up to the counter, appointing herself Chief Herb Chopper.
“Careful with the knife,” I instruct, handing her a small, relatively dull paring knife and a bunch of parsley.
“Papa lets me use the big knives,” she says, concentrating fiercely on her task.
“Does he now?” I raise an eyebrow, dicing onions nearby.
“Only when he’s watching super close. He says knife skills are important.”
She meticulously saws through a parsley stem. My hands tremble slightly as I assist her.
“Are you cold, Miss Wrenley?” Ivy peers up at me.
“A little,” I lie.
As the pasta boils and the chicken sizzles, I arrange the cooked components on our plates.
Instead of just piling it on, I swirl the pasta, nestle the sliced chicken beside it, drizzle the sauce artfully, and shower it with Ivy’s painstakingly chopped parsley and lemon zest. Old habits.
“Wow,” Ivy breathes, looking at her plate. “It looks like the pictures in Papa’s cookbooks.”
“Does it?” I try to sound casual, but a warmth spreads through my chest. “Just trying to make it look as good as it tastes.”
We eat at the huge dining table, the two of us feeling small in the grand room.
“Will Papa be mad about the car?” Ivy asks softly, not meeting my eyes.
“I hope not, sweetie. It was an accident. And nobody got hurt.”
My voice sounds thin, unconvincing even to my own ears.
“He doesn’t like accidents,” she whispers. “He yelled real loud at Miss Nora when she scraped the wheel on the curb.”
Great. Just great. My stomach clenches tighter. Scraped wheel versus crunched bumper. I’m doomed.
“Well, hopefully, he’ll understand,” I say, trying to project confidence I don’t feel.
We finish dinner, and the conversation shifts to lighter topics, such as school subjects, favorite colors, and the merits of different dinosaur shapes for sprinkles.
The easy normalcy is a balm, but the dread beneath remains, a low hum under the surface.
Bath time is uneventful, filled with bubbles and splashing. We skip the shark song tonight. As I tuck Ivy into her bed, surrounded by rainbows and stuffed animals, she grabs my hand.
“Don’t leave?” she asks, her blue eyes shining.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I assure her, settling into the rocking chair beside her bed. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”
I stay for a long time, watching her peaceful face, the knot in my stomach tightening with every tick of the clock downstairs.
This little girl deserves consistency, deserves someone who doesn’t bring chaos and car accidents into her life. Maybe Miss Erin was right.
Finally, I slip out, leaving her door cracked just enough for the hallway light to spill in.
Downstairs, the house is silent again. I wander into the living room, sinking onto the plush sofa.
