8. Chapter Eight Ruby #2
I chuckled and shook my head. She was right, of course.
The best days were the ones where we stayed in our pajamas all day, moving from one lazy activity to the next.
They were rare now, with her growing list of extracurriculars and my ever-expanding workload, but those memories still held a special place in my heart.
It made me feel horrible.
Maybe…maybe I really shouldn’t be taking this on.
Maybe I was a horrible mother, like Julian said. No, not said. He always implied, which made it worse. It was harder to defend myself against implications.
“So what did you pick?” I asked as I settled next to her on the couch, giving her a kiss on the forehead so I could see if her temperature had gone down at all.
She was a little cooler now, but the doctor had said to keep her away from other kids---not just because she was contagious, but because her immune system was busy fighting the virus already in her system.
“The Little Mermaid,” she said. “I know Ariel is your favorite.”
I snuggled up to her. “You didn’t have to do that. We can watch Moana or…”
“No, I love the songs!”
That was the end of our argument.
We ate together, tucked under the same blanket, the soft glow of the TV flickering over the room. Rosie sang along quietly between bites, her voice getting sleepier with every chorus.
By the time Ariel gave up her voice, Rosie was fast asleep, her head resting on my shoulder.
I didn’t move at first. Just sat there, breathing her in — the faint scent of shampoo, the little flutter of her breath against my arm. Her face was soft in sleep, cheeks still flushed from the fever, one hand curled up near her chin.
Julian would say I wasn’t doing enough. That she needed structure. Consistency. But right now, she had me. And I wasn’t going anywhere.
Well…except to the bathroom.
I eased out from under her as gently as I could, careful not to wake her, then tucked a blanket around her before walking down the hallway toward the downstairs bathroom.
It was tucked in the back of the house, a little box of a room with a narrow window that didn’t open and barely let in any light. It was always dark in there.
I flipped the switch. Nothing.
Of course. Julian’s beloved halogen bulbs were acting up again.
We’d redone the house two years ago, and the wiring had never worked right — all aesthetic, no function. Just like him.
I sighed and stepped inside, letting my eyes adjust to the thin strip of hallway light behind me. My hand went to my pocket, instinctively searching for my phone.
Not there. Still on the couch.
Perfect.
I paused in the doorway, squinting into the gloom.
I could just pee in the darkness, I supposed, but my kid was afraid of the dark…
and if Julian came home and found the lightbulb out, it would just be one more excuse to say I wasn’t engaged enough, that I was too busy to take care of things.
I needed to do this; the lightbulbs were under the sink, and it would be easy enough.
“How many district attorneys does it take to change a lightbulb?” I muttered to no one.
I was capable.
I could change a damn lightbulb.
I crouched and opened the cabinet under the sink, rummaging past old cleaning supplies until I found the spare bulb box. One left.
Figures.
I unwrapped it carefully, then stood on tiptoes, squinting up at the fixture above the mirror. The hallway light barely reached, but I could see my target. I squared my shoulders and reached up to unscrew it…
…and it broke .
It fucking broke.
Sometimes, life decided to beat you over the head with metaphors.
The house I’d shared with Julian was literally falling apart thanks to his obsession with keeping up appearances.
Wonderful.
I took a closer look, knowing I should grab my flashlight but not wanting to wake Rosie. I could do this; I was so, so competent, and I could see that the old bulb had broken off at the base. Just the metal threading remained, jagged and wedged deep in the socket.
“Of course,” I muttered. “Why would this be easy?”
I knew better. I knew better. This was how people ended up in urgent care with tetanus shots and glass in their palms. But I didn’t want to leave it for later. I didn’t want to leave it for Julian to find.
Because if he did, it would be another checkbox. Another reason I wasn’t attentive enough, domestic enough, motherly enough.
So I reached up, gripping the base with my fingers, and twisted.
It bit into my skin immediately, but not enough to cut—so I held on, twisting with slow, stubborn pressure.
Pain flared. I hissed through my teeth.
“Come on,” I growled. “Just let go—“
Another turn. My hand slipped, just slightly—but the base moved.
And that’s when the sharp metal edge dug in and ripped a clean line across my palm.
“Shit—!”
I dropped back down, clutching my hand. Blood welled fast and hot, running down my wrist in a thin stream.
All because I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. All because I couldn’t stand the prospect of Julian’s judgment.
All this…over a fucking lightbulb.
I staggered to the sink, turning on the faucet with my elbow.
The cold water hit the wound like ice, making me hiss through my teeth.
The light from the door barely illuminated the trickling stream, but the sharp scent of blood filled the air.
Tiny shards of glass glinted all over the sink, some even on the floor—yet another hazard for Julian to jump all over me for.
I pressed a towel to my hand, trying to slow the bleeding. I couldn’t let myself panic. Rosie was asleep. I had to stay calm.
I fumbled for the door handle, clutching my wounded hand to my chest. The hallway’s ambient light felt blinding as I stumbled out, half dazed. I leaned against the wall, observing the blood trickle down my wrist and forearm, creating a macabre red bracelet.
This…it was more serious than I’d thought.
Damn it, damn it, damn it .
A larger shard was still lodged deep in my palm, the edges biting like teeth. Blood welled up around it as I clutched my hand to my chest.
“Mom?” Rosie’s sleepy voice called from the living room. I tensed; the last thing I wanted was for her to see me like this and worry.
“Go back to sleep, peanut. I’m just getting some ice,” I said as softly and casually as I could manage. She murmured something back, unintelligible, the rustle of blankets telling me she was settling again.
In the kitchen, I opened a drawer with my good hand and grabbed a handful of paper towels, already soaked through by the time I pressed them to the cut. I peeled one off, winced, and wrapped another around it tighter.
Blood kept coming.
Perfect. As if I didn’t already have a campaign swallowing my life, now I was bleeding all over the kitchen floor.
And if Julian saw the stain, he’d probably accuse me of leaving Rosie alone while I got drunk and broke a wineglass.
Because in his version of the story, that was always who I was.
I glanced at the living room where Rosie lay sprawled on the couch, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
How many times had I rushed her to the ER for a fever or a broken finger?
The thought of waking her now, disrupting this rare moment of peace, made my heart heavy. But I couldn’t just leave her alone.
That meant I had to do something I really didn’t want to do.
I clenched my teeth. I hated that no matter how strained things were between us, he was still the first person I thought of for emergencies.
But he was still her father. So I had to call Julian.