“I’m thinking of going to Chicago, anyway,” he says. “I probably won’t stay more than one night at your place.”
I laugh at the idea that this kid thinks I’m going to allow him to run off to another city now that I know he exists.What am I getting myself into?I have a feeling my day-to-day responsibilities have just doubled. “Do we have any other siblings I don’t know about?” I ask him.
“Just the twins, but they’re only eight.”
I stop in my tracks and look at him.
He grins. “I’m kidding. It’s just the two of us.”
I shake my head and grab the back of his hoodie, pulling it down over his head. “You’re something.”
He’s smiling when we make it to my car. I’m smiling, too, until I feel a sharp stab of worry in the center of my gut.
I’ve known him for half an hour. I’ve knownofhim for a fraction of a day. Yet I suddenly feel like I’ll be protective of him for a lifetime.
Chapter SixteenLily
You lose your mornings after having children.
I used to open my eyes and lie in bed for several minutes before grabbing my phone and catching up on everything I might have missed while I slept. I’d have a cup of coffee, and then mentally map out my day while I showered.
But now that I have Emmy, her early morning cry rips me out of bed, and I become her gopher before I even have time to pee. I rush to change her, rush to clothe her, rush to feed her. By the time I’m finished with morning mother duties, I’m late for work and barely have time to do those things for myself.
It’s why I cherish Sunday mornings. It feels like the only day of the week I get any sense of calm. When Emmy wakes up on Sundays, I always bring her back to bed with me. We lie together and I listen to her babble and there’s absolutely no rush to get up or be somewhere.
Sometimes, like right now, she falls back to sleep, and I just stare at her for long stretches of time—marveling at the wonder that is motherhood.
I grab my phone and take a picture of her to text to Ryle, but I hesitate before hitting send. I don’t miss Ryle at all, but it does make me sad in moments like this that Ryle doesn’tget to do this with us, or that I don’t get to share in the joystheyhave together. There’s nothing better than adoring the child you made with the person you made them with, which is why I always try to text him pictures and videos. But I’m still upset about last night and don’t really feel like reaching out yet. I save the picture for a more peaceful day.
Fucking Ryle.
Divorce is difficult. I knew it would be, but it’s so much harder than I anticipated. And navigating divorce with a child in the mix is a million times trickier. You’re stuck interacting with that person for the remainder of your life. You have to either figure out a way to plan birthday parties together or figure out a way to be okay with having separate celebrations. You have to plan on which holidays each of you get to spend with your child, which days of the week, down to which hours of the day sometimes.
You can’t snap your fingers and be done with the person you married and divorced. You’re stuck with them. Forever.
I’m stuck dealing with Ryle’s feelings forever, and frankly, I’m growing tired of always feeling sorry for him, worried for him, fearful of him,considerateof his feelings.
How long am I supposed to wait before I start dating someone else without Ryle being justified in his jealousy? How long do I have to wait before I tell him I’m dating Atlas if Atlas and I become a thing? How long until I get to start making decisions about my own life without worrying about his feelings?
My phone vibrates. It’s my mother calling. I slide softly out of the bed to walk to the living room before answering it.
“Hey.”
“Can I have Emerson today?”
I laugh at her blatant disregard for her daughter now that she has a granddaughter. “I’m good, how are you?” My mother loves Emmy as much as I do—I’m convinced of that. When Emmy turned six weeks old, my mother started taking her for a few hours at a time while I worked. She actually stayed at her house overnight last month—it was Emmy’s first night away from me since she’d been born. She had fallen asleep at my mother’s, and neither of us wanted to wake her, so I went back for her the next morning.
“Rob and I are close by; we could come pick her up in twenty minutes. We’re going to the botanical gardens; I thought it would be fun to get her out. I’m sure you could use the break.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll get her dressed.”
Half an hour later, there’s a knock at my door. I open it and let my mother and Rob inside. My mother beelines across the living room, straight to Emmy, who is on a pallet on the floor.
“Hi, Mom.” I say it teasingly.
“Look at this adorable outfit,” my mother says, picking her up. “Did I buy her this?”
“No, it’s a hand-me-down from Rylee, actually.” It’s nice that Rylee is six months older. We haven’t had to buy Emmy many clothes because Allysa gives me more than enough of Rylee’s. And they’re always in great condition because I don’t think Rylee ever wears an outfit twice.