Page 54 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
“It’s forgetting what I looked like when I wasn’t hurting.”
I know that feeling too. Seeing my headshots, knowing the first batch were taken while I wore enough makeup to hide the earliest bruises he gave me. For a long time, I forgot what I looked like when I wasn’t in pain.
Still nothing. The lines fall flat in my mouth. I should connect to the material better than anyone, but?—
A knock on the door saves me.
“Come in,” I call, not bothering to sound warm.
Maeve peeks her head in. Her braid’s a little messier than usual. Her cheeks are pink. There’s a very specific look on her face—half irritation, half panic—and I sit up instantly.
“What happened?”
She steps into the room, arms crossed. “I think I’m dying.”
My heart drops. “Excuse me?”
She makes a vague gesture at her stomach. “I’m hurting here. I’m grumpy. I snapped at Eli for breathing, and then I went to the bathroom and saw blood. So. I’m dying.”
I swallow, not wanting to ask this. “Did anyone hurt you, baby?”
“No. I mean, I guess I’m hurting me. It’s not like a stomachache either. It’s worse. A lot worse.”
It clicks. I blink once. Then blink again. “Oh.”
Maeve narrows her eyes. “Oh?”
I set the tablet aside and stand slowly. “Baby, you’re not dying. You got your period.”
Her face twists like I just told her she won a lifetime supply of dental cleanings. “Oh, crap. That’s gross.”
“It’s not gross. It’s normal.”
“It’s stupid.”
“Itisstupid,” I agree. “But it’s also…kind of a big deal.”
She groans. “Please don’t make it athing.”
Too late. Because in my head? It’s alreadya thing.Not just because my baby girl is officially growing up—but because this is the moment I promised myself I’d get right. I knew this moment would come.
I just didn’t expect it today.
And I didn’t expect the emotional whiplash—going from Friedburg lines and Oscar dreams to panic and pride and a veryreal urge to cry because my daughter is officially not a little girl anymore.
Maeve is pacing in front of my desk now, still grumbling to herself, but all I can see is a flash of myself at thirteen. Standing in the middle of my mother’s yellow-tiled bathroom, holding a wad of toilet paper soaked in blood, and having no idea what the hell to do with it.
No one had told me anything.
My mother didn’t believe in “that kind of talk.” She walked in, saw the evidence, and sighed like I’d spilled something. “You know what this means,” she’d said. No warmth. No comfort. Just obligation. “You’re going to need to be more careful around boys. Once they find out you’re a woman, you’re cursed.”
That was the extent of my welcome to womanhood. No hug. No answers. No celebration. Just shame and fear. The kind you don’t have a name for until you’re much, much older.
I promised myself I’d do better when it was my turn. And now—it’s my turn.
Maeve groans again, clutching her stomach. “Ugh. Why does ithurt?”
“Because your uterus is basically throwing a temper tantrum.”
