Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
No, thanks.
I say that out loud, which invites a drawn-out, painful sigh from Jazz. She’s moved on to folding up tablecloths that don’t fit on any table in the house or garden.
Ignoring the looks she keeps on sending me, I wrap the last of the porcelain animal collection in paper before sealing the box. The owner gave me permission to get rid of anything that’s broken, cracked, or chipped, which will definitely help to declutter her home.
The wall into which her flock of ducks has been nailed seems a lot less crammed now that the birds have been relieved of their fifty year-long flight. Their places left marks on the faded wallpaper. The nails were hammered in carelessly, mimicking the haphazard flight formation of a never-ending trek to a warmer climate. I’m sad for those ducks that never went anywhere. Those nails will take the plaster with them when the owner pulls them out. She’ll have to strip the wallpaper and fill the holes with spackle. A fresh coat of paint will do wonders.
Noah scrambles over the obstacles he’s built with the sofa cushions and lands his plane on the armrest of a chair. He’s a real ball of energy. He should be outside, climbing trees and learning to ride a bike. He should also have clothes that didn’t come from the thrift store and sneakers that don’t have holes.
That’s what kills me time and again, those little holes his big toes have worn through his sneakers because he only has one pair he wears every day. Children need good shoes for proper back support. My mom drilled that into me. And here I am, my heart cracking open and bleeding empty in my chest, and there’s not a damn thing I can do to make it better.
I tell myself that I give Noah plenty of the important stuff that money can’t buy—hugs and love and cuddles at night. Yet deep down, I know the truth. When I found out I was pregnant, I swore I’d give my child the best. Of course, money wasn’t an issue then. Now, I can’t even guarantee we’ll have food on the table.
Because I screwed up.
In the worst possible way.
But I try not to think about that. The guilt is too damning. If I give in to those feelings, I’ll drown in them.
Yet I can’t ignore how my choices impacted Noah or what my actions meant for him. I’m made to face my mistakes over and over again, forced to admit all my broken promises when I look at my sweet little boy who’s lost in his own imagination and a paper plane because I can’t afford to buy him toys.
“Done.” Jazz turns to me, framed by small heaps of folded linen on the table behind her. “How about you?”
Straightening, I stretch my sore back. “Almost.”
I’m used to the work. The heavy lifting has strengthened my muscles over the years, and my body has grown fit from the exertion. However, I’ve been pushing myself extra hard to finish this job because I need the money. Every bone in my body is aching.
We finish sorting the boxes by clothes to be dropped off at charities, ornaments destined for pawn shops, and paperwork to be shredded. I call myself a home organizer, but in reality, I’m a glorified maid who declutters and spring cleans other people’s messes. The job doesn’t pay well, but my clients pay cash, which allows me to stay off the grid.
“So.” Jazz rights the last box with a foot. “Are you going to ask him, or am I?”
“Ask who what?”
“The hot handyman.” She pulls her shoulders up to her ears. “On a date.”
“No and no.”
She watches me without replying. I don’t bother to decipher her expression. It probably says I’m paranoid and pathetic. In both instances, that would be true. And if she thinks she can fix that, she’d be wrong.
I glance at the wall clock where the minute hand ticks onto four-thirty. “Let’s call it a day.”
I want to get out of here before the owner gets home. My working hours are designed to be convenient for my clients. I clean when they’re out, and when they return from work, I’m gone. I have my own reasons for maintaining minimal contact. The less I’m seen, the better for everyone.
Keeping as invisible as possible doesn’t come without complications when you’re trying to make a living and take care of a kid. Someone who doesn’t want to be found can’t advertise. All my referrals are by word of mouth. A burner phone serves as a method of communication, but I only use it for emergencies such as not being able to come in when Noah is sick.
“At last,” Jazz groans, massaging her lower back.
I shoot her a guilty smile. “You didn’t have to come.”