Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 48730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 244(@200wpm)___ 195(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 244(@200wpm)___ 195(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
I’d been working at one of the local grocery stores since I was fifteen, and I’d gradually begun paying for most of our groceries. With my employee discount it wasn’t so bad, and I was actually looking forward to the summer because I’d been promised double my normal hours since I didn’t have school to deal with. My little junker of a car that Richie’s dad had helped me find at a police auction needed new headlights and an oil change that I’d been putting off for months. Even with those expenses and the extra groceries I’d be buying to keep the kids fed during the day, I was still hoping to put a little cash away for a rainy day.
Without Aisling watching me like a hawk, it was easier to skip breakfast. The older kids had been as aware as I was that once I’d graduated I wouldn’t be getting free school food. When I’d gone back to my room the night before, I’d found a smushed but carefully laid out Danish sitting on my nightstand. I wasn’t sure who’d left it, but I was leaning toward Cian. Saoirse wouldn’t have let it get smushed, and Ronan had already given me the apple. Unfortunately, I’d eaten it as a late-night snack, and it was already a memory.
Ignoring the siren call of the fridge, I went to the cupboard under the sink and pulled out the cleaning supplies. If I was going to be home all day, I might as well get some stuff straightened up while there wasn’t anyone there to follow after me messing it up again.
I scrubbed the kitchen until my arms were tired and the entire room smelled like chemical lemons, then moved onto the living room. Our house wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t small either. Dad had made pretty good money running a machine shop making some kind of metal parts—I’d never paid much attention—and before Cian was born, Mom had worked, too, so we’d been pretty flush. I still remembered going out to dinner, without fail, every Friday night. One time, Mom had got stuck in a booth because of her huge pregnant belly, and Dad had to practically pry her out of it. I’d been stuck behind her, near the wall, giggling my butt off while they bickered and laughed.
Good times.
Our furniture was older, it had been a while since we updated anything, but none of it was trashed. I hummed to myself as I vacuumed in between the couch cushions, refusing to think about how long it had been since we’d cleaned up the crumbs. I was pretty sure we hadn’t had fish crackers in the last six months, but more than a few rattled up the vacuum hose.
I cleaned for hours. Vacuuming, dusting, and throwing toys and balls and dolls into the rooms they belonged in. It was kind of relaxing. There was something meditative about cleaning while the house was quiet around me and instantly seeing the results of my hard work.
Sometimes it felt like I was swimming against the current. I’d finished school, but without a graduation, it fell a little flat. I worked and got paid every two weeks, but almost instantly that money was gone toward fuel for my car, kid expenses—they constantly needed shit—and groceries. I was moving, always moving, but I wasn’t going anywhere.
I’d come to the realization two years ago that I would be living in the same house with the same life until Aisling graduated. It wasn’t something I thought about much, it just was. Unless something drastic changed with our mother, there would never be a time when I could leave my baby sister to deal with Mom’s bullshit alone.
I hadn’t broken that news to Richie yet. He was full of dreams of getting an apartment together after he’d landed an apprenticeship and was making more money. He wanted to get married. Have a few kids. Take vacations. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I wasn’t going anywhere for at least ten more years.
Halfway through cleaning the downstairs bathroom, the doorbell rang, startling me into hitting my head on the shelf above the toilet.
“Fuck,” I hissed, raising my hand to make sure I wasn’t bleeding.
I contemplated ignoring whoever was at the door. I really didn’t want to deal with someone trying to sell me something. A few moments later, though, I was walking out of the bathroom, my hands still covered in rubber gloves. With the kids at school, I couldn’t ignore someone trying to contact me in case there was something wrong with one of them.
I swung open the door, and my stomach dropped so hard I was instantly nauseous. The sweater set, slacks with a crease set precisely down the center, clipboard, and fake smile told me exactly who the woman on our front porch was.