Page 10 of A New Year Baby

CHAPTER 5

“Idon’t think we should go,” my mother is saying.

I gently shut my daughter’s door, after having just tucked her in and read her a bedtime story. “Why not? Maybe it could be good for Luna to get to know her aunties and her other grandparents.”

“I am scared, Stella,” my mother says softly. “I already lost my son—I don’t want to lose my granddaughter. What if they tell Jack? What if he tries to take her away from us?”

Logically, I know this isn’t likely. But it still causes fear to spread throughout my chest. “He is the one who left,” I tell my mother. “The courts would see that we’ve provided a happy life and stability for Luna for years. They would never take her from me.”

“But his name is on the birth certificate. He has rights,” my mother reminds me. “He’s a doctor, and that’s a respectable profession. He’s been working in horrible conditions for very low pay, helping people in extreme poverty. Do you really want to go up against Jack in court? Any judge would think he’s an amazing man of strong character.”

“Gosh, Mom. Why do you have to say it like that,” I whisper as I crack Luna’s door open a few inches, making sure she’s still there and fast asleep. Like maybe she was kidnapped through the window in the few seconds while we were having this discussion.

“It’s all my fault,” my mother is saying, wringing her hands anxiously. “We both knew that someone would eventually find out if we came back to this town. I am the one who wanted to come here.”

“It’s okay,” I tell her gently. “I trust Eve. She seemed very understanding. Plus, she was so sweet to Luna.”

“I’ve always told you that the Valentine women are cursed,” my mother says, crossing her arms. “No matter how wonderful things seem at first, we never end up lucky in love. We always end up being single mothers.”

“Good grief, Mom, stop being so gloomy.”

“It’s not gloomy, it’s just facts. My father died in the war, and your father ran off with his practically teenage mistress. I really thought Jack would be the one to break the cycle. He always seemed so solid and reliable—then all of a sudden, poof! He ran off to Africa when you needed him most.”

“It’s fine,” I tell her with a deep sigh. “And I’m perfectly happy being single. If you’re not happy, let me know, and I’ll set you up on some dates.”

“At my age?” my mother asks, pointing at her chest. “And with one boob? No, darling. But you should try to meet some nice young men.”

“I don’t have any desire to date,” I inform her. “And there is nothing wrong with dating at your age. We could find you a handsome silver fox. One boob is all you need—and it’s a perfectly good boob.”

“I’ll go on a date if you go on a date,” my mother negotiates.

“Maybe you should go on a date whether or not I go on a date.”

“Well, you share my genetics, young lady, so maybe you should go on a date while you still have both of your boobs.”

“Maybe I’ll meet a nicer man if I wait ten or twenty years and remove both of my boobs—so I’ll know right from the start that he doesn’t only like me because I have boobs.”

“And what if I meet a man who only likes me because I have one boob? What if he’s into pirates—like he prefers women missing an eye with a sexy eye patch. Or missing a leg with a peg and a stump. What if I end up with a weirdo like that? Would you want your poor mother to suffer dating creeps with pirate fetishes?”

“Yes, in fact, that’s what I’ll call you in your dating profile. Sexy Pirate Amazon Grandma, baking bread with one boob since 2019. Deal?”

“Fine. And I will label you Master Pastry Chef Single Mom needs you to come and give her some sugar. Knead her dough. Excellent soft buns, rated five stars. Very delicious. Perfect muffins need creamy filling. Deal?”

We stare hard at each other, neither of us blinking. Like we’re having a standoff in a Western movie.

Finally, I groan, breaking the stare. “Just go to bed, Mom. I’ll go downstairs and clean up the kitchen.”

“Okay, little chicken,” my mom says with a laugh. “Goodnight.”

She’s right. We’ve had this conversation a million times, and I always back down. Occasionally I have agreed to go on a date or two, just to please her, but it always feels like a waste of time. How could anyone compare to Jack?

What we had was so special. How could I ever love someone that hard again, knowing how easily it all can fall apart?

I have entered my kitchen and grabbed the broom to sweep up the flour, when I hear the bell ringing to announce a customer.

But we’re closed. Crap—I guess I forgot to lock the front door.

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