Mummy, Please Marry Uncle Biker Daddy

Lily

   Mommy thinks I'm asleep a lot.

   I don't tell her when I'm not.

   The house makes different sounds at night. I know which ones mean nothing and which ones mean I should listen. The fridge makes noise, the pipes squeak The floor creaks when Mommy walks slower than usual.

   Last night, she walked slow.

   I was on my side with Mr. Bear tucked under my chin when I heard her stop in the hallway. She didn't come in. She just stood there for a little while. I kept my eyes closed because when grown-ups think you're sleeping, they don't ask questions.

   I heard her breathe. In and out. Like she was counting.

   Then she went to her room.

   I waited until the house went quiet again before I opened my eyes.

   I don't like when Mommy is inside quiet. That kind of quiet feels different. It makes the air heavy. Like when it's about to rain but doesn't.

   In the morning, Mommy woke me up like she always does. Soft voice. Gentle hands. Same routine. But her eyes looked tired, and that made my stomach feel funny.

   I got dressed by myself and didn't ask for help. I wanted to be good today.

   At school, I tried to tell Alex about my birthday, but the words felt weird in my mouth, so I told him about my crown instead. He said crowns were for princesses and kings. I said I was both.

   When school was over, Mommy picked me up right away. Sometimes she's late, but not today. Her smile came fast when she saw me. Too fast.

   We went home and made macaroni for dinner. I stirred while she watched the pot. She kept checking her phone and turning it face down on the counter.

   I noticed.

   After dinner, I colored at the table. Mommy washed dishes. The water ran loud, and I heard her sniff once, like she had a cold.

   I colored a picture of our house. Just us. I didn't draw Daddy.

   When it was bedtime, Mommy read two stories even though she usually only reads one. She tucked me in and kissed my forehead and stood up too quickly, like she didn't want to stay.

   "Mommy," I said.

   She stopped. "Yes, baby."

   "Are you mad at Daddy?"

   She sat back down on the edge of the bed. Her hands folded in her lap.

   "No," she said.

   I waited.

   She sighed. "I'm not mad. I'm disappointed."

   I didn't know exactly what that meant, but it sounded heavier than mad.

   "Is he coming back to live here?" I asked.

   She shook her head slowly. "No."

   That felt strange. Sad, but also not. Like when you miss something but don't want it back the same way.

   "Okay," I said.

   She brushed my hair back from my face. "I love you."

   "I know," I said. "I love you too."

   After she turned off the light and closed the door, I stayed awake again.

   I heard her phone buzz later. Once. Then again. I heard her walking. The floor creaked outside my door.

   She didn't come in.

   Instead, she went to the kitchen.

   I slid out of bed and padded quietly to my door. I opened it just a little, enough to see the light under the hallway and hear better.

   Mommy was talking on the phone.

   Her voice was low. Not yelling. Not crying.

   "I told you not to contact me," she said.

   There was a pause. I imagined Daddy's voice on the other end even though I couldn't hear it.

   "No," Mommy said. "You don't get to decide that anymore."

   Another pause.

   "I'm not being difficult," she said. "I'm being clear."

   She went quiet for a moment, then said, "Stop."

   I felt my chest squeeze.

   "I'm hanging up now," she said.

   The kitchen went quiet. Then I heard a sound I didn't recognize at first.

   Mommy laughing.

   Not happy laughing. The kind that breaks a little at the end.

   I stepped back into my room and closed the door softly. I climbed back into bed and hugged Mr. Bear tight.

   The next day, Daddy didn't come.

   That part wasn't new.

   What was new was the way Mommy kept checking the street through the window. Not nervous. More like she was waiting for something she didn't want.

   In the afternoon, we went to the store. Mommy's hand stayed on the cart handle the whole time. She didn't let go, even when I asked to push.

   At home, she sat at the table with papers spread out. Numbers. Writing. Her serious face.

   I sat on the floor and played quietly. I didn't want to interrupt.

   The doorbell rang.

   Mommy's head snapped up.

   She stood slowly and walked to the door. I followed, stopping a few steps back.

   When she opened it, Daddy was there.

   My heart jumped.

   But Mommy didn't smile.

   "What are you doing here?" she asked.

   "I need to talk," Daddy said.

   "Not now."

   "Please."

   Mommy looked tired. Not sleepy tired. Heavy tired.

   "Go home," she said.

   "I am home," Daddy said.

   That made Mommy's mouth turn into a straight line.

   "This stopped being your home when you left," she said.

   I held my breath.

   Daddy looked past Mommy and saw me.

   "Hey, peanut," he said softly.

   I didn't say anything.

   Mommy stepped in front of me without touching me, like she was blocking the doorway with her whole body.

   "You need to leave," she said again.

   Daddy's face changed. He looked mad now.

   "You're poisoning her against me," he said.

   Mommy didn't raise her voice. "You're doing that all by yourself."

   Daddy stared at her for a long moment. Then he turned and walked away.

   Mommy closed the door and leaned her forehead against it.

   I stood there, not knowing what to do.

   Finally, she turned around and knelt in front of me.

   "I'm sorry you saw that," she said.

   "It's okay," I said, because it felt like the right thing to say.

   She hugged me tight. Her arms wrapped all the way around me. I hugged her back.

   Later, when she thought I was asleep again, she sat at the kitchen table with her phone in her hand and didn't move for a long time.

   I knew something was changing.

   Not all at once. Not loud.

   But like when the ground shifts just enough that you know you'll have to learn how to stand a new way.

   I closed my eyes and listened to the house.

   It was still ours.

   For now.