Chapter 4
Maren
“Miss ma’am. Can you please, for the love of God, hold still?” The braid I’ve been trying to weave down one side of Zara’s head slips through my fingers yet again. “Otherwise we’re going to be late, and you will never let me hear the end of it.”
No one told me the hardest part about parenting was going to be maintaining the schedule of a five-year-old. I feel like all I do after getting home from work every night is run my sister from one place to another. Her social schedule is more packed than mine has ever been.
Probably because she’s a butterfly and I’m a wasp.
“I am holding still.” Zara wiggles again, completely oblivious to just how much she’s moving around. “And I don’t want to be late. I want to talk to Breanna.”
“Breanna isn’t going to be at dance class tonight.
Her dad texted to let me know she’s not feeling good.
” Zara’s best friend at the dance studio apparently has a wicked case of strep throat, and I appreciate her dad keeping her home.
The last thing Zara needs is strep. She’ll lose her shit over having to miss school and then I’ll lose my shit over having to stay home, listening to her lose her shit.
“What?” My sister tries to turn to look at me, her movements stunted by the grip I have on her dark hair. “For real?”
“For real.” I widen my eyes at her. “Now stop freaking moving.”
Zara slumps down in her chair, a pout plumping her lower lip. And of course it makes me feel bad. She likes dancing, but I know her favorite part of the weekly class is getting to see Breanna.
As I finish winding the tail sections of her connected double Dutch braids together, I let out a sigh. “Do you want to stop for ice cream on the way home?”
As I expected, that perks her right back up.
And just like that, Zara is as eager to get out of our trailer and on the road as she would have been if her friend was going to be in attendance.
And since it’s now ten times easier to get on the road than it was when I had my sedan, we still have plenty of time to make it to the studio before class starts.
Activating the automatic door on our new-to-us accessible van, I wait for the bifold ramp to engage, then wheel Zara up into the vehicle, securing her chair to the designated points before closing her in.
As soon as I’m behind the wheel and all our bags are settled on the passenger seat, we are officially on our way.
The minivan is for sure bigger than my old four-door, but it doesn’t feel as giant to drive as I expected.
Not that it would’ve mattered if it did.
It wasn’t really an option. Over the years, it got more and more difficult to make the car work for us.
Not only because her chair got bigger and—even collapsed—took up more trunk space, but also because she’s gotten bigger.
Maneuvering her into the backseat was a whole workout. For both of us.
Now, there’s no disassembling or collapsing. No worries I’ll crack her head on the frame or drop her into the floorboard. The van is most certainly more expensive, but thanks to my increased salary and holiday bonus, the added monthly bill is manageable.
Which is great, because I really didn’t want to tell Zara she was going to have to give up one of her beloved activities.
We pull into the lot at the dance studio, and I blow out a sigh of relief when I see there’s an accessible parking space available.
That’s probably because every time I catch one of the parents who doesn’t require the spots taking one, I lose my shit.
They aren’t actually the closest parking places, but that isn’t why they’re so valuable for people like me and Zara.
Zara’s in a wheelchair. She can go as far as I have to push her. Distance isn’t the issue for us.
Space is.
I back the van in so the extra lined-off area is next to the door with the ramp, then shut off the engine and open Zara’s door using the button on the console.
While it slides open, I collect our bags and climb out, rounding the front just in time to engage the ramp.
I unhook Zara, loop our bags over the back of her chair, and roll her down the ramp.
Then I close everything up and head inside.
Breanna isn’t here, but plenty of other kids Zara is friendly with are, and she quickly finds a pack to chat with while I stake out my spot for the next hour.
Many parents leave for the duration of the class, going for coffee or to do a little shopping, but I’m not comfortable abandoning Zara just yet.
Not when there isn’t someone completely capable of navigating any problems that might creep up.
She’s pretty freaking healthy considering how things started out, but there are still issues that can arise out of nowhere, and I don’t ever want her to feel like she’s afraid and on her own.
I know what that’s like, and I’ll be damned if she ever will.
Their cute little ballet teacher comes out, sweetly smiling and chatting with all the kids as they file past her into the studio. I watch to make sure Zara doesn’t get left behind, and smile a little when one of the kids pushes her forward.
That was one of my biggest fears when she was a baby. I know how unaccepting people can be, and worried endlessly she would be an outcast. Or worse, that other kids would be afraid of her.
But, unlike me, Zara is a freaking ray of sunshine.
Everyone who meets her loves her. Adults, kids, everyone.
And so far, I haven’t had to threaten anyone over the way they treated her.
Which is good, because I absolutely would.
Doesn’t matter who it is. Little old lady or a kindergartner—they would feel my wrath.
The door closes, and I dig into my work bag, pulling out the company-issued laptop and the snack I grabbed on our way out the door.
Flipping my computer open, I slip the bag onto its side, using it as a desk as I log into McKinley Security System’s private server.
In addition to a private server, the computer also has its own internet service and some sort of fantastically secure firewalls or something.
I didn’t really pay attention to Titus’s explanation when he handed it over.
All I know is I don’t have to worry about someone hacking into it, so I can stay on top of anything I don’t need to be in the office for during dance class, cheerleading, and Girl Scouts.
I spend the next hour updating all of Brooke’s spreadsheets, making sure everything is accurate and easy to navigate, before closing up shop for the night just as my sister emerges.
The braids I painstakingly worked into her hair are loose and scraggly, she’s only wearing one of her slippers, and I think there’s a snag in her tights.
But her cheeks are pink and there’s a wide smile on her face.
At the end of the day, that’s all that really matters.
It’s why I spend my evenings as Zara’s personal chauffeur and a huge chunk of my income goes to her activities.
I want her to have all the things I never did.
I want her to know she is my priority and her happiness matters to me.
I want her to feel safe and loved and appreciated.
One of her little friends rolls her over to where I sit, giving her a squeeze goodbye before leaving with her mother while I repack my bag and pull a hoodie over my sister’s head. Once she’s cozy, I pass Zara her travel cup filled with ice water and we roll out into the chilly evening air.
On the drive home, we make a pit stop at her favorite fast food restaurant for soft serve cones.
Has she had dinner yet? Nope.
Do I care if she has dessert first? Also no. All I care about is that she always has enough to fill her stomach. I know what it’s like to be hungry, and it is yet another thing I will make damn sure Zara never experiences.
She happily plows through her treat, polishing it off just as we pull into our tiny driveway.
Then I’m unloading her again, even more grateful I was able to qualify for the loan to buy this van.
Because I’m fucking exhausted, and reassembling her chair before scooping her out of the backseat at this point in the day was zero fun.
Even less fun than carrying her up the stairs and into our trailer used to be.
As I push Zara up the shiny new ramp I installed and into our home, I send Brooke a silent thank you for the sign-on bonus I got when she hired me.
I whip up a super simple dinner, plopping it down on our tiny table before digging in. As a kid, I had to eat whatever I could get my hands on. It didn’t matter if I didn’t like the taste or had to pick off mold. It was that or starvation.
And starvation sucks.
But Zara has never met a hungry day—and never will if I have anything to say about it.
Which is exactly why she turns her nose up at the pile of garlic roasted broccoli next to the carbonara she will inhale. “I don’t like broccoli.”
I shove in a bite of the slightly browned vegetable, forcing my expression to stay neutral as I chew through it. “Broccoli doesn’t like you either, but you still have to eat it.”
I could be talking to either of us, honestly, because veggies aren’t my favorite.
My sister snorts. “Broccoli isn’t a person.”
“That’s why it’s okay to eat it.” I shove in another mouthful of stems and florets before using the tines of my fork to point at hers. “Otherwise you’d be a cannibal.”
Zara cackles. “I’m not a cannibal.”
Do most five-year-olds know what a cannibal is? Probably not. Yet another thing that’s not going to earn me any parent of the year awards. But the conversation amuses her enough she takes a couple bites of the vegetable.
So I’m going to call it a win.