Mom Over Miami - By Annie Jones Page 0,8

exactly. “It’s more a case of…”

He tipped his head up, his mouth open and his nose still pinched closed.

How could she explain to that sweet face that she sometimes felt so insecure about herself that she’d let people talk her into doing way more than she should ever even attempt? She couldn’t—not without planting a seed in his mind that she only agreed to take him into her home out of guilt, and the driving desire to please people and show everyone how much she was needed. Of course, at eight he wouldn’t have the sophistication to put it in that framework. But being a kid in the foster system, he’d pick up on the nuances on a gut level.

Hannah knew. She’d grown up as that kid from the less-than-normal household. She understood how a child might take a seemingly innocent remark and bury it in his or her heart. Where no one would know it lay hidden. But the child would know. The child would keep those words deep inside for always, and they might affect how that child grew up—who that child eventually became.

The very story of her own life had begun with her mother abandoning their family. In telling about it, her father always added, “And with Hannah just three weeks home from the hospital.”

Growing up with that ingrained in her makeup, what could any human being ever say or do to make her feel truly loved and wanted?

They would try, of course. And on an intellectual level, she accepted their assertions. On the surface of things, she’d moved along with cool ease and confidence because up there—on that surface—she realized that everything in her life looked pretty great.

To whine or complain about pretty much anything would seem shallow and petty. And since she lived her life always trying to make sure she never gave anyone any more reasons to reject her, shallowness and pettiness were qualities she could not afford. So she’d put her best foot forward. Her best shoes, best clothes, best hair and—always, always, always—best smile. Since it was all she knew she could rely on, she kept a tight rein on that tidy veneer.

But deep down, hidden in the dark pockets of her soul, she’d always carried a very real fear.

If her own mother didn’t want her, then who could?

And because she was a flawed being, she would find plenty of reasons why no one would choose her as a daughter, sister, friend, wife or mother. So she would—perhaps without always realizing she was doing it—go for the next best thing.

Maybe people couldn’t fully love her, but if she worked hard enough, if she acted sweet enough, if she gave and gave and gave and did not ask for much in return, then maybe people would at least begin to need her.

If Hannah was anything, she was needed. So much so that she couldn’t do something as simple as take the family out of the skunk-scented house long enough for a morning run to the grocery store for fear someone would nab her for a favor. Or worse, see her shortcomings and decide she wasn’t needed at all.

But how could she explain all that complex stuff, much of which she had barely worked out herself, to a child that she wanted more than anything to protect from those very demons?

“Okay. I’m hiding. But just a little bit.” She held her thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch apart and peered at him through the opening. “You see, there are these two sisters. You remember them. The ones that have their own interior design business and told you they’d like to decorate your room for you as a welcome present?”

“The ones that smell like paint and flap their hands when they talk?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And they talk all the time?”

“That would be them.” She shut her eyes a moment. Maybe now Sam would cut her some slack about not wanting to go out this morning and risk seeing them. “Anyway, these ladies—they want me to volunteer at church…”

“Church?” He raised his eyebrows and finally let go of his nose. “You’re hiding from church ladies?”

“Well…” She held her thumb and forefinger up again to illustrate the minuteness of her sin. Then quickly she moved all her fingers in counterpoint to her thumb, the universal sign for someone yakking her head off, just to remind Sam of who it was she was avoiding.

“B-but—” he shook his head “—you can’t hide from God.”

“No! No, I wouldn’t. That is, I