Chapter 2 Ford
Ford
“I’m still not happy about this” I grumble as I watch Mom busy herself in the kitchen by frantically beating cake batter in a large bowl.
I lean back to rest my tired, overworked body against the edge of the counter and cross my arms over my chest. Mom’s pretending she doesn’t hear the edge in my voice, and I know it.
“I thought we’d agreed we weren’t going to rent that place out anymore after the last tenants. I thought you’d taken down the listing.”
The memory of the tenants sets my teeth on edge. Their excuses, dodged calls, and vanishing act each time rent was due—those were mine to handle, while Mom fretted and forgave too easily.
“I understand you’re not pleased, sweetie,” she tells me, placing the bowl down on the counter and rifling through the cupboards to avoid looking at me.
“But when this girl contacted me, I just felt I had to help. I think she just needs somebody and somewhere to give her a break—a chance.”
I sigh, swipe my finger through the batter, and pop it into my mouth, savouring the rich chocolate and fighting to ignore Mom’s attempts at softening me.
"You’re too kind for your own good," I mumble through the gooey batter.
Mom whips around, catching me red-handed. She flicks a towel at me in warning, but I don’t miss the playful glint in her eye.
"Hey, hands off!" she scolds, but her smirk ruins any real sternness.
I scowl out of habit, desperately trying to keep my lips from curving up to match her own grin.
Mom’s always been soft … too soft and too giving.
Losing Dad only made it worse. She channels all that grief into caring for others, as if keeping busy makes the loss hurt less.
I know this, and yet, it still frustrates me.
Because she’ll give and give until the candle is burnt at both ends, the bright flame snuffed out.
"I just don’t want you dealing with another headache, especially after the last disaster. You shouldn’t have to stress over this again."
“Oh, Ford,” she says, her voice mellowing as she moves to gently pat my cheek with a small, flour-dusted hand.
“For all your grumpiness, you really do have a soft side.” She winks and I jerk away, levelling her with a flat, unimpressed look.
“I’ll be fine,” she continues. “The girl seems lovely. and besides, you’re going to help me, aren’t you?”
Her tone is knowing, expectant. More of a fact than a request. I groan, letting my head drop back against the cabinets and giving in to my inevitable defeat.
Of course she was going to ask, and of course I was going to help. I always do. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
"Fine," I mutter reluctantly, pushing my fingers through my hair. "I’ll help you, but …" I hold up a finger, making my stance clear. "… any issues, and she’s gone!"
Mom pats my arm, a warm smile playing on her lips.
“You grumble, but I know you’ll always do the right thing. You might be grumpy, but you’ve got a good heart.”
I open my mouth, to say something, but what, exactly?
Not the truth, that’s for sure. Not that I’ve felt like a shadow of a person ever since Clara left and Dad passed.
Not that I have a hard time believing I’m a good person.
But before whatever meaningless excuse I can come up with has the chance to leave my lips, the doorbell chimes, cutting through the moment.
"Oh," Mom exclaims, momentarily flustered. "That’ll be her."
She glances down at her flour-dusted hands and messy apron, then looks back up at me with a sly smile tugging at her lips. "Get the door for me, will you? I need to clean myself up."