Midnight Sommelier - Anne Malcom Page 0,2

until you held your child in your arms, watched them grow, speak, cleaned up their shit and vomit, and got to be in their lives.

I hated him for how much he looked like his father. How he was a living reminder. How he and his brother were the reason I couldn’t completely lose my shit and drink vodka out of a water bottle while lying in bed, shutting out the world for the rest of my life.

Well, I still drank vodka out of a water bottle, just not until after they went to school. But I got up. I made him breakfast. Lunch. Took him to buy things like fucking tuxedos to wear to school.

Because he’d never watch another old movie with his father ever again. His father wouldn’t watch him graduate high school, college, or get married.

So yeah, I’d buy him that stupid fucking swan costume that Björk wore to the Oscars if that meant he smiled at me.

But then I’d see his father in his smile and despise him. I’d want to slap it off his face. That was wrong, right? To hate your precious, unique, weird as fuck seven-year-old son?

But all of this was wrong, so what the fuck ever.

“I want chicken nuggets, a Big Mac, cookies from Subway, and a shake from Wendy’s,” he said, likely waiting for the mother he used to know to say no to takeout on a school night, or at the very least, to make him pick just one.

Instead, I nodded, snatching up my keys. “Ryder!” I called up the stairs. “We’re going on a fast food adventure. Coming?”

A pause. “Coming!” he called back.

We went to get fast food as the broken family we are, and I tried to figure out how I was going to get through the rest of my life like this.

2

I used to be a blogger.

A mommy blogger.

Thinking of that now made me want to throw up and then punch myself in the face. The staged photos that I spent hours trying to make look candid. The smiling photos with my kids, my ‘hacks’ that only looked good on social media and did nothing in real life. Watching the likes on my latest post like my very life depended on it. Editing out miniscule lines on my forehead, getting Botox monthly, and telling everyone I would never inject poison into my head, that I just had a very extensive skincare routine and good genes.

I don’t know if having kids fucked up my genetic makeup as much as it did my vagina. I knew that I couldn’t get rejuvenation surgery on my personality like I had on the aforementioned vagina.

Maybe I’d just gotten so caught up in the life I had that I somehow forgot it wasn’t the life I wanted. Or maybe I never recovered from the year of sleep deprivation that came with having Jax. With Ryder, I’d been younger. Had more energy. Managed to not only finish my degree but to raise a toddler. David had only just started at the firm and had to put in a lot of hours. But it didn’t seem like a big deal then. Not when I was freshly married, having just moved into my dream house in Black Mountain. I was in decorating mode. I kept busy. Took Ryder to baby classes. Did a million loads of laundry. Exercised and starved myself in order for my body to bounce back. And then there was the full-time job of dodging David’s evil mother who hovered around with her old money superiority and judgement. I’d been shielded from her by going to college in a different state, not realizing that my move to David’s hometown would put me squarely in her crosshairs.

So yeah, I handled Ryder well. Kept busy. For ten years. Now, it seems insane to say that ten years had gone by so quickly, with every moment accounted for despite the fact I was a stay-at-home mom without a job.

I had a college degree, I had dreams for a career. But then there was Ryder. Getting through the newborn months, then the terrible twos, then the toddler years, then his first day of school. Then there were all the obligations as a mother in this town. Where you had to attend meetings, organize bake sales, charity functions. All sorts of shit I never thought I’d ever be caught dead doing.

But it just ... happened.

Maybe it was because I was compensating for the fact we only had one child