4. Winnie #2
Mr. Lawrence held his hands up defensively. “Please don’t judge me. It’s mostly warm milk, I swear.”
CJ looked offended by this betrayal. “There is coffee in it.”
“There is one spoonful of coffee in it.”
“And sugar.”
“Yes, an alarming amount of sugar.”
I slowly removed my gloves as I observed CJ more closely. The boy was fully awake this early and already downstairs. I saw no backpack nearby. He didn’t have shoes on yet. There was no urgency whatsoever toward actually beginning the school day.
He wanted time with his father.
He sat angled toward Mr. Lawrence. The unconscious movement told me he was trying to prolong connection.
Mr. Lawrence moved toward the counter and checked his watch. “All right, buddy. You should head upstairs and finish getting ready.”
CJ took a thoughtful sip from his mug. “Actually, there was a study done recently showing that waiting until the last possible moment to dress yourself allows the conscious mind to step aside, resulting in more authentic self-expression.”
His drawing out conversation, wanting to extend breakfast time was his way of trying to avoid being separated from the man.
I watched his father’s face carefully. If he was irritated or suspicious, he didn’t show it.
“Interesting.”
CJ continued. “It was conducted in Sweden.”
“Was it?” Mr. Lawrence asked.
“Yes.”
Mr. Lawrence raised an eyebrow. “At which university?”
CJ hesitated one fatal second too long. “Sweden University.”
His father snorted softly into his coffee, yet he didn’t address the lie. CJ was caught, but not corrected for his fabricated story. Interesting parenting choice.
“That’s enough social psychology for the morning,” Mr. Lawrence said gently. “Go finish getting dressed.”
“I am dressed.”
“You’re missing shoes, a tie, and your blazer.”
CJ looked down at himself as though this information had genuinely surprised him. “I think what I’m wearing is sufficient.”
“You attend a private school with a dress code stricter than some governments,” Mr. Lawrence reminded him.
“This is oppression.”
“Shoes.”
CJ let out a theatrical sigh before sliding off the stool. On his way past me, he whispered, “The Swedish study was real in spirit.”
“I shall keep that in mind.”
He grinned and disappeared upstairs at a pace intentionally too slow to qualify as compliance. His father watched him go with a look I’d seen countless times before in grieving parents. Relief tangled with guilt.
Every goodbye mattered too much after sudden loss, and any form of confrontation was played on repeat in the parents’ minds. Were they too harsh with the child? Not harsh enough? And, one of the most core-shaking questions: if I lose this person suddenly, will they know how much I loved them?
He caught me noticing and looked away first. “I know he was stalling,” he said.
“Mm.”
“I should probably be stricter.”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“Whether your goal is obedience or understanding.”
That stopped him briefly. He recovered quickly and gestured to the counter. “Can I get you coffee? Tea?”
“Tea would be lovely.”
“I thought so. I wasn’t sure if you drank coffee.”
“I do sometimes. But I prefer tea in the mornings.”
He busied himself with the kettle while speaking. “I know yesterday was a lot all at once. I just wanted to check whether you had any questions before the morning chaos officially begins.”
I leaned against the island. “I think you covered everything I need to know about the children. Are there any other issues you think I should be aware of?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Honestly, I think most of the issues are behavioral.”
He paused and glanced at the stairs, making sure his children wouldn’t overhear him discussing their shortcomings.
“They’ve learned,” he continued carefully, “that if they push hard enough, adults usually leave.”
Ah, yes. That made sense.
“How long have they been without consistent childcare?” I asked.
He handed me the tea mug before answering. “Depends on what you mean by consistent.”
Too long, then.
I accepted the tea carefully. Earl Grey. Not bad.
“I know I spoil them,” he admitted suddenly.
“A little,” I said gently.
He laughed once under his breath. “Is it that obvious?”
I smiled. “Mr. Lawrence, it’s not my place to tell you how to raise your children. But they obviously have every possession they could ever want and more.”
He watched me over the rim of his coffee mug. “First, please call me Conrad. I insist.”
“Very well.”
“I just…” He stopped. “As you know, I work a lot—honestly, a hell of a lot more than most parents. But, then again, I’m a single parent who is now making up for the salary of two parents.”
“I’m very sorry about your wife’s passing. Death doesn’t just create mourning, does it?” I asked. “It requires the construction of an entirely new life.”
He slightly cocked his head to the side. “That sounds like something someone who’s experienced loss would say.”
I stared at the wall. I’d known more loss than he could fathom. And I’d lived more lifetimes than he could count. “I think we’ve all experienced some level of loss.”
“I’m sure you’re right. Well, I should warn you, Jade was a damn good attorney, and my gifted children inherited their mother’s intelligence.”
Oh. His wife had been gorgeous and brilliant. Suddenly, I was very aware of my plain black outfit—not that that made any realistic difference for me. Wanting to cover my silly reaction, I nodded, encouraging him to continue.
Mr. Lawrence continued. “Bianca, for example, has hyperlexia. She was reading before she could speak in full sentences. And her little sister, Billie, loves to copy her. She uses big words that are shocking to hear coming from a five-year-old. I’m sure you’ll hear exactly what I’m referring to soon enough. ”
He sighed. “Anyway, when I’m home, I don’t want every interaction to become discipline.”
That was completely understandable. Unfortunately, it was also unsustainable. Conrad truly loved his children, but perhaps he had some incorrect assumptions. And some of his priorities were a bit mixed up.
“The problem,” I said carefully, “is that children often experience too much permissiveness as uncertainty rather than kindness.”
He shifted slightly, checking his watch. “We’ll have to continue this conversation later. I really hate to leave, but if I don’t, I’ll be late. Traffic is such a bitch at this hour.”
And with that, Conrad headed to work. He returned approximately three minutes later to retrieve two forgotten documents, then came back again for the car keys he’d left on the counter when collecting said document—each time with visible reluctance about leaving the children.
After reassuring him and seeing him off one last time, I turned my attention to cooking. Three wrapped peanut butter sandwiches sat on the counter next to lunch bags.
Conrad clearly had not expected me to cook immediately. Unfortunately for him, I had spent most of the previous evening researching their school.
Humans posted astonishing amounts of information online, so it was easy for me to find the private academy’s official website. It emphasized academic rigor, discipline, leadership, and nutritional excellence. Meanwhile, the parent discussion boards painted a much stranger picture.
Apparently, packed lunches were a competitive blood sport among wealthy families.
If you weren’t giving your child increasingly creative bento arrangements that contained organic produce and nitrate-free proteins, then you were failing them.
I’d seen gluten-free artisanal crackers shaped like woodland creatures, and one mother had referred to another parent as being “socially aggressive with cucumber presentation.”
Fascinating culture.
I unwrapped the peanut butter sandwiches thoughtfully and set them aside with the intention of feeding the backyard squirrels after the kids were safely off to school.
Luckily, the fridge and pantry were both well-stocked. I worked quickly, slicing fruit and layering them with yogurt in jars for parfait, grilling herbed chicken and vegetables for wraps. For a final touch, I made oat bites sweetened lightly with honey.
The food was balanced, healthy, and appropriately intimidating.
By the time I finished, the kitchen smelled warm and comforting, which this house desperately needed.
I checked the clock. Why weren’t the children down in the kitchen yet?
When I was human, mornings had meant hunger immediately upon waking. One survived long winters by aggressively breaking the fast. Even after vampirism altered many instincts, I still associated mornings with kitchens, bread, and hunger.
These children, apparently, did not.
I headed up the stairs, going to Billie’s bedroom first because chaos moved fastest through the smallest bodies. She lay spread across the bed with one foot hanging entirely off the mattress and three stuffed animals trapped beneath her.
“Billie,” I murmured.
No response.
I stepped closer. “Billie.”
Her eyes flew open. “The eggs know!” She frowned sleepily at the ceiling. “Why am I yelling?”
“Excellent question. I think you were dreaming.”
“Oh.” Her lips puckered in thought. “Were the eggs evil?”
“I certainly hope not.”
She sat up abruptly, then immediately fell sideways back into the pillows, obviously not fully functional yet.
Bianca proved considerably more alarming. When I knocked lightly and opened the door, she sat bolt upright, fully awake and making direct eye contact.
It was honestly a little unsettling.
“Good morning,” I said carefully.
“Good morning.”
“Were you already awake?”
“No.”
“You transitioned from unconsciousness suspiciously quickly.”
Bianca shrugged. “I thrive on efficiency.”
CJ, unfortunately, was the true battlefield. Apparently, he’d decided to crawl back into bed after his father had instructed him to finish getting dressed. I found him face down, still missing the rest of his uniform.
“CJ.”
“M’awake.”
“No, you’re not.”
He rolled over blindly and dragged a pillow over his face. “School’s canceled,” he mumbled.
“No, it isn’t.” I removed the pillow. His eyes remained closed. “Sit up.”