After the Divorce, I Only Need My Daughter

Every drop of warmth drained from my body. The room tilted, my vision swimming, and I nearly collapsed right there on the floor.

Only then did Reginald notice me. A flash of panic crossed his eyes before he forced his expression into something casual.

"What are you doing here? Don't you have the cart to run today?"

Before I could speak, Fiona slid off his lap.

She acted like she didn't recognize me, sticking out her tongue in a cutesy little apology.

"Sorry, ma'am. I didn't realize you knew Reggie. I thought you were a waitress."

Reginald frowned and instinctively turned to me. "That's just how Fiona is. She says whatever's on her mind. She doesn't mean anything by it."

"Don't take it personally."

The same people who'd been tearing me apart seconds ago burst into jeering laughter.

"Oh, the second the main girl walks in, Reggie can't help himself—already jumping to her defense!"

"Like that old hag would dare take it personally? Calling her ma'am is generous. She looks more like a grandma!"

"Who cares about her? She's useless to Reggie now anyway. Come on, raise your glasses—here's to Reggie finally shaking off that secondhand woman and her little bastard kid!"

Each word hit like a fist to the skull. I drew in a long, shaking breath.

While they were still gaping, I closed the distance in two strides.

I swung with everything I had and slapped the man so hard his head snapped to the side.

"Keep my daughter's name out of your filthy mouth. Call her that one more time, and I will rip your jaw off."

Outside the bar, the night air hit my face like cold water.

That was when I realized my whole body was shaking.

My hand found the thin card in my pocket and squeezed. The paper edge bit into my palm, and I sucked in a sharp breath.

It was the invitation Moira had made by hand.

Three stick figures drawn in crayon, holding hands in a row. Like a real family.

But the one labeled with Reginald's name was smeared now, blurred beyond recognition by the blood seeping from my palm.

For a moment I just stood there, numb, before the tears caught up to me.

The wind dried them on my cheeks. My skin pulled tight, stinging.

I'd met Reginald at the lowest point of my life.

I was fighting Alvin in a brutal divorce, left the marriage with nothing, scrambling to keep my head above water. At the same time, I'd dusted off my parents' old trade and started selling breakfast burritos from a street cart—anything to cover Moira's tuition and keep food on the table.

The very first morning I set out, the cart's tire blew on the way there.

I crouched on the curb for what felt like forever, hands black with grease, and the tire stayed flat.

But if I didn't set up that day, Moira and I wouldn't eat.

Then I heard her stomach growl. She pressed her little hand against it and whispered, "I'm not hungry, Mommy. My tummy's just being weird."

That broke me. I dropped to the ground right there on the sidewalk and sobbed, smearing grease across my face when I tried to wipe the tears.

That was when Reginald appeared.

He ran three blocks to borrow a pump, then got down on his hands and knees to inflate the tire. Black grease smeared across his white T-shirt, and he didn't care. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and grinned up at me. "All set. Give it a try."

He pushed the cart all the way to the night market and didn't leave until the stand was set up.

After that, he started showing up every day with a handful of friends, claiming they were there to drum up business. When they teased him about having a crush on me, I laughed it off as a joke. But his ears turned red all the way down to his neck.

"Would that… would that be okay?" he stammered.

Moira wanted nothing to do with him at first. She wouldn't even give him a second word.

One afternoon I was swamped at the cart and missed the call that school had let out early. It was Reginald who sprinted through the pouring rain, searching more than a dozen streets until he found my lost little girl.

After that, Moira finally let him in.

And now I had to tell her the truth—tell a child who'd only just begun to trust again that none of it was real.

I stumbled back to the apartment in a daze. It was already the dead of night.