Chapter 2
TWO
LUCY
If pouring coffee one-handed while spreading peanut butter on bread with the other was an Olympic event, I’d be headed for gold.
“Where’s your shoe?” I called, trying not to let the coffee slosh as I overfilled the travel mug. Again.
A small blur zipped past me in the form of my six-year-old, Liam, one socked foot slapping tile, the other bare. “The couch ate it!”
It was barely seven. The sun was still half-asleep and so was I, but the school day didn’t care. We had maybe twenty minutes before go-time, and we were already behind.
I set the mug down with more force than necessary and grabbed the sandwich I’d just finished slapping together.
It wasn’t art, but it was lunch. Somewhere between Monday’s staff meeting, Tuesday’s spelling packets, and last night’s attempt to fix the leaky faucet, I’d lost the will to make things cute.
This wasn’t Pinterest. This was survival.
I tossed the sandwich into his lunchbox along with a juice box and a granola bar, then spun in a full circle, trying to remember what I’d just done with his homework folder.
My brain was already trying to run the math on how late I’d stayed up grading spelling worksheets, how much time I had before the bell, and whether I’d remembered to put on deodorant.
Lesson plans: not finished.
Field trip permission slips: not copied.
Electric bill: unpaid.
Clean laundry: mythical.
My sanity: holding on with duct tape and a prayer.
It was like this most mornings—some blend of low-grade chaos and blind momentum.
One year into living in Huckleberry Creek, and I still hadn’t found that magical groove where single motherhood, full-time teaching, and pretending to be a functioning adult all synced up.
Probably because that groove didn’t exist. Just a myth we told ourselves between coffee refills.
“Found it!” Liam shouted from under the couch, brandishing his missing shoe like a trophy.
“Fantastic.” I grabbed his sock from the back of the chair and tossed it to him. “Five minutes to brush your teeth, and then we pack up. I mean it this time.”
He nodded and scampered off.
I let out a breath and finally took a real sip of coffee—still hot, which felt like a miracle—and leaned a hip against the counter.
We weren’t late yet. Also miraculous. But we were close enough that I didn’t dare celebrate.
Liam wandered back into the kitchen, cereal spoon in one hand, his shirt half-buttoned and already carrying a suspicious streak of jelly across the front from I had no idea where.
His hair looked like it had lost a battle with both his pillow and static electricity. He was, as usual, a perfect mess.
“I couldn’t find the toothpaste,” he announced, chewing like he had zero intention of pausing to swallow.
“It’s in the same place it’s been since we moved in,” I said, wiping the counter with one hand and grabbing a napkin with the other.
He shrugged and grinned. “I used the travel one from the drawer.”
“From the drawer with the Band-Aids?”
He nodded proudly.
I crouched down and tugged him close so I could swipe the corner of his mouth. Strawberry jam. Of course it was. I’d need to check his nightstand drawer later to see if he’d stuck the jar in there for snacking. “Remind me to buy stock in napkins.”
“You say that a lot.”
“Because you’re sticky a lot.”
He giggled and leaned against me while I tied his sneaker. Lopsided, the laces slightly frayed. Parenting, in one knot. I kissed the top of his head before he could squirm away.
“Hey, Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Do teachers get recess too?”
Something about the way he asked the question—curious, sweet, completely unaware of how it landed—stopped me in my tracks.
I smiled, soft and tired. “Not really. But sometimes we sneak a minute or two when no one’s looking.”
He seemed to consider this, like it was a radical injustice that needed to be fixed. “Then I hope you get to sneak some today.”
My throat tightened. “Thanks, bud.” I nudged him toward the bathroom. “Now go find the real toothpaste before your breath scares your classmates.”
He laughed and ran off.
I watched him go, heart full and aching in the same breath.
The house quieted for a beat, just long enough for the hum of the fridge to rise and the silence to feel a little too loud.
I leaned against the counter and let myself exhale, the kind of breath you didn’t take when someone was watching.
Across from me, the morning light cut through the kitchen window, landing right on the side of the fridge I tried not to look at too closely.
But of course, I did.
There, half-covered by Liam’s latest stick-figure drawing of a volcano with googly eyes, was a photo of the three of us—me, Liam, and Marcus—taken during some long-ago “trying to make it work” phase.
The edges were curling. The smile on my face looked hopeful.
Marcus looked distracted. Two-year-old Liam’s was the only one that felt real.
I kept telling myself I’d take the photo down when it didn’t sting anymore. Apparently, not yet.
He said he wasn’t ready to be a dad.
I didn’t get to not be a mom.
The ache was quieter now than it used to be. But some mornings, it still hit just right—between the cereal bowls and the forgotten shoes and the goodnight kisses I gave myself when there was no one else left to give them.
The front door opened with no knock, because when had that ever stopped her?
“Incoming,” came the familiar voice, followed by the tap-tap of ankle boots and the unmistakable scent of vanilla, hairspray, and defiant optimism.
I didn’t even look up. “Good morning, Grandma.”
“I brought muffins,” she announced, appearing in the kitchen like she owned the place. Which, in fairness, she kind of did—I was leasing the house from her. “And don’t bother asking what kind. Lola sent what she thought would be the best emotional support.”
She dropped the box from Pie Hard on the counter with a flourish, like she’d just solved hunger and loneliness .
I arched a brow. “Did you just want muffins, or did you come to check that we’re both still alive?”
“I got a thumbs-up emoji from you last night. That’s distress code for ‘send food and reinforcements.’”
I rolled my eyes and started stacking Liam’s school papers. “It was a thumbs-up because I was too tired to type full words.”
“Exactly.” She poured herself a cup of coffee without asking, because of course she did, and leaned against the counter like she had all morning.
She looked good, as usual—red lipstick, oversized earrings, a moto jacket she’d probably stolen from someone half her age. She had the energy of a woman who knew she was a handful and fully expected the world to adjust. I loved her to pieces.
While I pulled Liam’s backpack together and shuffled through his permission slips, I saw her glance at her phone and tap out a text, her expression too smug to be innocent.
“Book club?” I asked without looking up.
“Mahjong mafia,” she replied breezily. “We’re very political.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “You’re up to something.”
“I’m always up to something. Keeps me young.”
Before I could press further, she turned the full wattage of her attention on me.
“So,” she said, casual as sin, “are you seeing anyone?”
I snorted. “Do I look like I have time to see anyone?”
“You have time to grade spelling tests and alphabetize your spice rack.”
“I have Liam.”
“He goes to sleep, doesn’t he?”
“And when would I meet someone?” I said, hands on my hips. “During recess duty? Maybe trade numbers over the juice boxes?”
She gave me a look. “You’re not dead, Lucy. You’re divorced. And that was two years ago. You are allowed to want something for yourself.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re functional,” she corrected. “That’s not the same thing.” She said it with love, which made it worse.
I sighed and reached for the muffin box. “What kind are these again?”
“Hope-flavored,” she said with a grin.
She waited until I’d taken a bite—blueberry, and infuriatingly perfect—before she went in for the kill.
“So. I’m taking you out Saturday night.”
I blinked. “What?”
She sipped her coffee like she hadn’t just lobbed a grenade across the table. “Nothing crazy. Just a little fun. Something that doesn’t involve washable markers or laminated name tags.”
“Grandma…”
“No arguments. You’ll have a good time.”
“I don’t have anything to wear.”
“Then I guess it’s lucky I’ve been threatening to take you shopping.”
I shook my head, more amused than annoyed. “This is a setup.”
“Of course it is,” she said, unbothered. “A setup for joy, for sparkle, for the faint reminder that you are, in fact, a woman with legs.”
I huffed out a laugh, muffin still in hand. “Do I have to wear heels?”
“Only if they help you remember you’ve still got it.”
I should have fought harder. I knew that.
But the truth was, I was too tired to argue.
Too tired to explain that it wasn’t about the clothes or the shoes or even the makeup.
It was about the part of me that had gone quiet.
The part that used to light up when someone looked at me a certain way. The part that still missed being seen.
Not as a teacher. Not as a mom.
As me.
I looked at her, that damn twinkle in her eye already saying she knew she’d won.
“I’ll think about it.”
She smiled sweetly and pulled out her phone again, casually typing something while I turned to rinse my coffee mug.
I didn’t think much of it. Probably her book club or some group chat I didn’t want to be in.
But she was humming.
And when Grandma hummed like that, it usually meant I was in trouble.