2. Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Camila Flores
A h, Saturday—my favorite day of the week. No blaring alarm to jolt me awake. Just the luxury of waking up on my own, spending a few extra minutes reading in bed. The possibilities are endless.
But none of that compares to my favorite thing in the whole world: being woken up by Ava, my mini-me. She just turned five last month, and she’s a ray of sunshine who warms my heart and gives me a reason to smile, no matter how hard or cruel life can be sometimes.
Ava wasn’t planned, but she was meant to be. Her father, Konstantine, was a great guy. We met when I was working at a pub, and he came in for a pint with some friends. He was Greek, but was in London for the summer.
We dated for three months, and things were great, until the unexpected happened. One night, while celebrating his friend’s engagement, Konstantine intervened to stop a robbery—just a decent man at the wrong place, at the wrong time. He died on the scene. Two weeks later, I found out was pregnant.
Life as a single mom hasn’t been easy, but I wouldn’t change a thing. Ava is the love of my life and the reason I keep going.
“Mummy! Brekki!” Ava shouts, barreling into my room and jumping onto my bed.
“Oh my, someone is fully awake already,” I say, tickling her until she dissolves into a fit of giggles.
“Mummy, stop. I’m going to wee myself,” she says between breaths.
Although I know I have to stop, I just love hearing her laugh. “Okay, okay. Go potty, and then we can snuggle for a bit.”
She darts off to the bathroom. My child doesn’t seem to have a slow motion cell in her body, everything she does is fast or super fast.
I stretch in bed, savoring the quiet moment. When she returns and wriggles under the covers with me, she wraps her little arms around my neck, and I hold her close.
“I love you, Mummy,” she whispers against my ear.
Warmth spreads through me. “I love you too, my little duckling.”
“So, what are we doing today?” she asks, her tone bright and eager.
I love her ability to change topics in the blink of an eye. It’s like her brain is going at lightning speed.
“Do you want to help me make breakfast?”
“Yes! I’m a tiny chef, Mummy. You’ll be my helper. Deal?”
I chuckle at her serious tone, tickling her sides again.
“No tickling the chef, Mummy. That’s an order!” she says, trying to sound stern, but her giggles fill the room as she tickles me back.
“Okay, okay—truce.” I surrender, laughing breathlessly.
Ava hops off my bed and races to the kitchen, and by the time I join her, she’s already washed her hands and has her little apron on.
“Can we make pancakes with chocolate chips, please, Mummy?” she asks, looking up at me with hopeful eyes.
I smile and kiss the top of her head. “Only if we cut some fruit to eat as well.”
“Deal!” she says with enthusiasm, as if she truly is the one in charge.
Once we have all the ingredients on the counter, Ava carefully measures the pancake mix and milk, then she cracks an egg, and mixes it all together very gently. I prepare the pan and help her pour the batter. She adds in some chocolate chips and beams with pride when I help her flip the first pancake.
“Why don’t you cut some bananas while I keep making pancakes?” I suggest.
“Great idea, Mummy,” she says, grabbing two bananas from the fruit basket and one of the kid-safe knives I got her for Christmas. Watching her so comfortable around the kitchen makes me beyond proud of my girl.
When I first came to London over six years ago, I had planned to just stay for the summer—just long enough to learn English while exploring this magnificent city. But one summer became six months, then a year. That’s when I met Konstantine.
As I work in the kitchen, my mind drifts back to the countless times Ava asked me to tell her how I met her father.
I couldn’t help but smile as I started the story. “I was leaving work and had to walk to jump on the tube. It was a dark and rainy night. For some reason, I felt like I had eyes following me.”
Her eyes widened with excitement. “And then Daddy came out of the shadows and saved you?”
Ava’s imagination had been running wild lately, probably because of her new obsession with superheroes. We had been watching Spidey and His Amazing Friends —a lot.
I chuckled. “No, he didn’t save me. But he was the one watching me.”
Ava’s eyes grew wide, and I bopped her nose.
“I kept walking, and the closer I got to the Tube station, the louder I heard footsteps trailing me. I thought I was going to be robbed or something. Taking a deep breath, I stopped in my tracks and turned around, and there he was—a tall, handsome guy with curious brown eyes and light brown hair. Just like yours.”
Ava swooned, clapping her hands dramatically.
“He said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just at the pub and saw you leaving and thought I’d walk with you—to make sure you were safe.’”
I deepened my voice to mimic Konstantine’s, and Ava giggled.
“I rolled my eyes at him,” I said, “and told him, ‘I don’t need a babysitter.’ But he just smiled and kept walking behind me.”
“What did he say next, Mummy?” she asked, practically bouncing with anticipation.
I smiled at the memory. “He said, ‘Good. Because I don’t want to be your babysitter, I’d like to ask you out.’”
Ava clapped again, like it was the best pick-up line she’d ever heard. “And then what, Mummy?” Ava asks, avid to know more.
“And then we exchanged numbers, and he called me. And the rest is history,” I finished, not wanting to make the story too long.
“But what happened? Did you hold hands? Did he take you out on a date? Did he kiss you?” Her questions tumbled out like a flood, her little face eager for more details.
I laughed, ruffling her hair. “That’s a story for another time, my little duckling. All you need to know is that he was kind, and he made me laugh."
Every single time I tell her the story, I see the same sparkle in her eyes, the same wonder at the father she never got a chance to meet.
After everything that went down with him, I thought about going back home to Colombia. But after speaking with my family, they made it clear I wasn’t welcome. They called me a disgrace for getting pregnant by a man they considered practically a stranger.
I can still hear my dad’s voice, cold and cutting: “ I didn’t raise a prostitute. Don’t ever contact us again .”
I’m the youngest of three girls. We weren’t rich, but we never wanted for anything. My parents were loving and caring, but they were always very strict, heavily reprimanding us for our mistakes.
My family was very supportive of me coming to London to learn English, but the longer I stayed, the more they questioned my decision.
I didn’t expect to be welcomed back with open arms, but I didn’t think my father would be so radical. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised at all.
But I was.
The shock of their rejection hit me like a freight train. Being called names and treated like I’d ruined my life was unbearable. I cried a lot during the first month of my pregnancy.
But I’ve met some amazing, kind, generous people along the way who have helped me create a safe and loving environment to raise Ava.
Now, years later, those painful memories seem like a distant storm, softened by the joy Ava brings into my life every day.
“Mummy, do you think Mrs. Evans is awake? Maybe she could have breakfast with us.” Ava asks as she pops a piece of banana into her mouth.
“I’m sure you can check,” I reply, flipping the last pancake onto the plate.
As soon as I set the dish on the counter, Ava quickly washes her hands, removes her apron, and darts out of our flat.
I hear her knocking on the flat next door, followed by muffled voices, and then footsteps.
Moments later, Mrs. Evans enters with a bright smile.
“Good morning, dear. Sweet Ava invited me over for breakfast, and I couldn’t refuse,” Mrs. Evans says with Ava wrapped around her middle.
“Thank you for joining us, Mrs. Evans. I wasn’t sure if you were up yet, but you know how Ava can be sometimes.”
“Well.” She chuckles. “I wouldn’t get out of bed on my first day after retirement for just anyone. Sweet Ava is special.”
“What does retirenent mean?” Ava asks, frowning as she looks up at her.
At that moment, she looks every bit the five-year-old she is. Sometimes she acts far beyond her years, so it’s always endearing to see her with wondrous eyes.
“Retirement,” Mrs. Evans enunciates carefully, “means I don't have to work anymore. I just get to enjoy life now,” she says with a triumphant smile.
Ava’s face remains puzzled. “So you don’t have to do anything anymore? That sounds boring,” Ava declares, plopping down at the dining table.
I stifle a laugh while Mrs. Evans bursts out laughing. “On the contrary, my sweet darling. Now I get to do the things I like , instead of things I have to do.”
Ava nods as if the explanation makes sense.
I set a plate in front of her, and she dives into her food. After bringing plates for Mrs. Evans and myself, along with coffee and orange juice, I sit down, and the three of us eat in comfortable silence.
“By the way, dear,” Mrs. Evans says, breaking the silence. “I let Mr. Godoy know you’ll be starting this Monday.”
My eyes widen in surprise. When Mrs. Evans brought up the possibility of me taking her place as an assistant, I thought she was joking. Then I looked up the Godoy Group—a powerful investment firm in Chile. Its next head, Vicente Godoy, lives here in London.
Why? I have no clue. The most logical thing to me would be for him to live near their assets. But who am I to judge? I may have a business degree, but I also bake cookies for a living and clean offices to make ends meet.
That’s how I met Mrs. Evans—our angel next door. She truly cares about Ava and me, helping in ways I never expected. She’s watched Ava at night while I work, stepped in when I needed support, and now… she’s trying to change my life.
“Are you sure, Mrs. Evans?” I ask, hesitant.
Working full-time will be a major adjustment. Baking from home has given me the flexibility to be with Ava, and even though school started last September, this job means I’ll need after-school care.
“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Evans says with a kind smile, patting my hand. “I’ll pick up sweet Ava after school. That would still give me plenty of time to rest in the mornings and care for her in the afternoons.”
“Please, Mummy! Please! Mrs. Evans will take real good care of me. Pretty, please.” Ava puts her hands together like she’s praying. Her gorgeous, big blue eyes shine and her bottom lip quivers. There's no way I can say no.
This job will definitely be better financially, and with Ava’s medical condition, I cannot afford to say no to money. When Ava was two years old, we discovered she suffers from thalassemia—a chronic blood disorder where her body doesn’t produce enough hemoglobin. She needs constant blood transfusions and chelation therapy twice a year to remove the iron excess from her body. The disease is treatable, but experimental therapy is costly.
There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my girl.
I release a deep breath. “Okay, let’s do this.” I know I can handle this, but I’m terrified.
“Yay. Mummy gets the big job,” Ava cheers, and the room explodes with laughter.
Despite my nerves, my heart flutters with excitement for this next chapter in my life.
“Okay, let’s finish eating because Mummy needs to buy some clothes for her new job,” I say.
Good thing I have some savings for emergencies. I can’t show up at the Godoy Group wearing jeans and trainers.
As Ava hugs Mrs. Evans, I glance at the clock. I didn’t have the guts to call Mr. Godoy back. The thought of spending the weekend stressing about how our lives are about to change feels overwhelming. Instead, I decide to savor the next two days with my daughter.
I remind myself of my mantra: anything and everything for Ava . That’s all I need to keep going.