Wrong Place, Right Time(40)

I could engage with her, but right now I need to save my energy for the excuse I’m about to make to my boss. He has a way of making me feel desperate and sneaky, even when I’m telling the truth about why I can’t come to work. It’s not like I’m hungover and blaming it on a little kid’s fake stomachache.

Melody comes into the kitchen next, which is completely normal; my almost-eight-year-old is always the last one down the stairs, the last one out the door, and the last one in bed. And right now, she’s still half asleep, which is also status quo.

“Good morning, Merry Sunshine,” I say in an especially bright voice.

“Morning, Mama,” she mumbles. She gets up on the stool in front of the kitchen counter and rests her chin in her hands. A few seconds later her head drops to the side, startling her awake.

I put a big glass of orange juice in front of my very disoriented, sleepy daughter. “Drink this. It’ll wake you up.”

“Do we have to go to school?” she whines, taking the glass and holding it in front of her while she waits for my answer.

“Yes, you have to go to school. What did you guys do with your dad this weekend, anyway? Why are you all so tired?”

Sophie pipes up, sounding very happy about the information she’s delivering. “We got to stay up until one in the morning.”

I put my spatula down gently on the counter, trying like crazy to control my temper. I so want to Hulk-out right now.

“Great. Excellent,” I say with exaggerated patience. “I suppose you also ingested ten pounds of candy.”

Melody perks up. “More like a ton.” She is also very happy about her weekend.

Bastard, Miles! I am going to kill you!

“Sammy barfed,” Sophie says. “It was disgusting.”

Melody’s grimacing right along with her sister. “Yeah. It was disgusting. Daddy’s girlfriend got really mad.”

“I don’t like her,” Sophie says before I can interrupt. “She’s totally stuck-up.”

“Sophie! Don’t say that!”

Sophie shrugs. “Well, she is.”

This is the first I’ve heard of Miles having an actual girlfriend. I thought he just dated girls who are barely legal, avoiding all forms of actual commitment.

I poke at the eggs. “So, Daddy has a girlfriend, huh?”

“Yeah. But he said not to tell you and that it wasn’t any of your business.” Sophie seems to delight in delivering this little nugget of information. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she’s enjoying getting me worked up.

My grip on the spatula goes very Hulk-like. I flex a few of the muscles in my arms and legs, just for fun. It helps keep my mind off the fact that I want to murder the father of my children right now. How dare he play games with our kids?

“He’s right,” I say as cheerily as I can. “It’s not my business and I don’t care.”

Melody speaks next. “But if he has a girlfriend, he’s never going to come home.”

I drop the spatula in the pan, turn off the stovetop, and turn around. “Melody, honey, you need to stop thinking that way. Your daddy and I are never, ever, ever getting back together.” Thank you, Taylor Swift, for reminding me that I am not the only woman in the world in this position.

“Not if he has a girlfriend,” she says, pouting.

“No, not if he does and not if he doesn’t. It just isn’t going to happen.”

“But don’t you love him?” Melody asks, nearly crying. Both of the girls are staring at me now, waiting for my answer.

How do you tell your children that you’ve seriously considered running their father over with your car on more than one occasion? That you cannot remember what you ever saw in him? That you think he’s a lying scumbag who doesn’t deserve to even be their father?

I sigh. There is no way to say these things. You just have to lie or dance around the truth. I always try dancing first . . .

“Babies . . . I love that your daddy gave me the three most beautiful children on the planet. I got very lucky meeting him.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” Sophie, the too-smart-for-her-own-good child, says.

“Who wants eggs?” I ask brightly, not ready to step knee-deep into the lies this morning.

“They stink. I’d rather have pancakes,” Melody says, holding her nose closed.

I whip around and start shuffling pans around. “Pancakes it is!” I’m not normally the kind of mom who runs a restaurant with a full menu out of my kitchen, but at this point I’ll do anything to avoid a conversation about Miles. “You girls go get dressed, and by the time you’re done, the pancakes will be ready.”