Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Her eyes meet mine and I want to tell her that Poppy’s uncle likes her too, but I don’t. Family dinner is enough for right now.
rye
. . .
I wake up at six thirty without an alarm, sunlight barely touching the edges of my blackout curtains. My phone sits on the nightstand, screen dark, and I reach for it out of habit before stopping myself.
Not today.
Today I’m going to be Lily’s mom. Just that. No emails, no venue emergencies, no thoughts about musicians with calloused fingers and voices that make my chest tighten. No Darian. No work. Just me and my girl.
I’ve been a terrible mother for weeks. Every time I catch Lily watching me with careful eyes, I know she’s learned to predict when I’ll be distracted or unavailable. She shouldn’t have to work around my moods.
I slip out of bed and pad to the kitchen in bare feet, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator with purpose. Real breakfast. Not drive-through bags or toaster pastries grabbed on the way out the door, but actual eggs and bacon and pancakes from scratch. The kind of breakfast that requires presence and attention and the luxury of time.
The coffee maker gurgles to life as I crack eggs into a mixing bowl. Lily’s favorite pancakes require buttermilk and vanilla, a recipe my mom taught me during one of her extended stays after Lily was born. I haven’t made them in months.
The bacon sizzles in the cast-iron skillet when I hear footsteps on the stairs. Lily appears in the doorway wearing pajamas covered in musical notes, hair sticking up everywhere.
“You’re cooking,” she observes, voice thick with sleep and surprise.
“I am.”
“Real cooking. With the stove and everything.”
“Yep.” I flip the bacon, letting the grease pop and hiss. “And we’re having a day. Just us.”
Lily approaches slowly. She’s learned not to trust my big plans because I start excited and quit fast.
“What about The Songbird?”
“Jovie can handle it.”
“What about your meetings?”
“Rescheduled them.”
She climbs onto the bar stool at the kitchen island, tucking her feet under herself. “What about . . .?”
“What about nothing. Today is about you and me. No phones, no work, no distractions.” I pour pancake batter onto the griddle, watching bubbles form on the surface. “We’re going to get our nails done, maybe do some shopping, see where the day takes us.”
“Really?”
The hope in her voice hurts. When did my complete attention become something special instead of normal?
“Really.”
Lily watches me cook with complete focus. She’s memorizing this moment because she knows it might not happen again.
We eat breakfast at the kitchen table instead of the bar counter, talking about camp and her upcoming recital and the book she’s reading about a girl who finds a magical guitar. Normal conversation that doesn’t require careful navigation around my moods or scheduling around my availability.
“Where do you want to go first?” I ask, collecting our empty plates.
“Can we get our nails done at that place with the music names?”
“The Painted Note?”
“Yeah. The one with all the cool designs.”
“Absolutely.”
An hour later, we’re settled into pedicure chairs at the boutique salon downtown, Lily’s feet soaking in warm, bubbly water while she flips through a design book. The Painted Note specializes in music-themed nail art, everything from tiny instruments to musical notation painted with precision across nails.
“I want these,” Lily announces, pointing to a set of silver nails decorated with miniature treble clefs. “Can I really get them?”
“Of course.”
She grins with the kind of happiness I haven’t seen from her in weeks. The nail technician, a woman with purple streaks in her hair and rings on every finger, settles at Lily’s feet and gets to work.
I chose a matte navy base with a single starburst on my ring finger, something subtle but different from my usual clear polish. The manicurist works with quiet efficiency while Lily chatters about camp and friends and whether she thinks the treble clefs will show up well in photos.
“Mom, look.” Lily holds up her hands, silver polish shining under the lights. The tiny treble clefs look like real silver.
“They’re beautiful.”
“Now you.”
I extend my hands, looking at the navy polish with its single point of light. “What do you think?”
“I think they look like you. Pretty but not trying too hard.”
Her comment stings. When did my daughter learn to analyze how much effort it takes me to function?
After the salon, we walk to the smoothie place two blocks away, Lily admiring her nails every few steps. She orders a strawberry banana concoction while I get mango passion fruit. We sit at a small table by the window, watching Nashville go about its Saturday afternoon business.
“This is nice,” Lily says, stirring her smoothie with a biodegradable straw.
“Which part?”
“All of it. But mostly that you’re not checking your phone.”
Another punch to the gut. I reach across the table and squeeze her hand.