Molly - Sarah Monzon Page 0,11

a few minutes, the water was turned off and a towel shoved into my hands.

“Just another exciting session of sewing in SoCal,” Betsy deadpanned, and we all burst out laughing.

4

Ben

I glanced at the clock for the dozenth time, once again going down my mental list to make sure everything was ready. Five minutes until I had to be out the door if I wanted to beat traffic and not be late to the hospital.

1. Group snack for preschool

A jumbo-sized package of animal crackers along with grapes sat next to Chloe’s unicorn backpack by the front door.

2. Consent to treat form

Under the Doctor Who fridge magnet. What a bear to find a notary public after hours, but everything was legal and squared away now. God forbid, but if anything happened to Chloe, then Miss Osbourne had the power to get my daughter the help and care she’d need.

3. A copy of Chloe’s medical history

With the consent form.

4. A mapped escape route with details on where to find the circuit breaker, first-aid kit, and water shut-off.

5. A list of nearby park

6. A list of Chloe’s favorite food

7. A schedule, because who knew what emergency may keep me at the hospital longer than I expected.

Some may think my over-preparedness drifted toward the punctilious, but I blamed genetics. Althea Reed embodied the Greek ideal of overprotective mother. Helicopter parenting before the term had even been coined. When I was younger, she’d ask me if I had a jacket when the temperatures weren’t expected to drop below eighty degrees because, “You never know.” Even now she called multiple times a week to check on my health and lecture me on keeping safe in a city. On the flip side, I often received packages with home-made baklava. Phyllo dough and honey were worth a predisposition for fastidiousness.

“All finished, Daddy.” Chloe stood before me, an empty plate with toast crumbs in her upraised hands, sticky strawberry jelly lining her mouth.

“You’re not dressed.” I took the plate and tossed it into the sink, happy that painted-on princesses and plastic dishware didn’t break at my rough treatment. I glanced at the clock. Three minutes.

Scooping Chloe up in my arms, I sprinted down the hall, her giggles loud in my ears. I tickled her across her ribs before setting her down. “Let’s race and see how fast you can get ready for school, okay?”

Her big brown eyes widened until she resembled an anime character. She nodded her head seriously as I pulled out my phone and opened the clock app. “Ready. Set. Go!”

She scrambled to pull clothes onto her body. Did they match? Only if red shoes, blue-and purple polka dot leggings, a yellow flower tu-tu, and a pink Stampeders jersey didn’t clash. Side note: they did. But she’d managed to change in a minute and a half, which meant I had just about enough time to detangle her hair before Miss Osbourne rang the doorbell.

“Come on, let’s get your hair brushed.” I led her to the bathroom, and she climbed up on the little stool so she could see herself in the mirror.

“I want a French braid please, Daddy.”

I fisted her long brown hair in my hand and ran the brush through the strands down her back, being careful of the snags so they wouldn’t pull on her head. “Sorry, sweetie, but we don’t have time this morning.”

Her gaze locked onto mine in the mirror. “But I want a French braid.”

“Chloe, we only have a minute. I can do a ponytail.”

Emotions gathered on her face, that eerie quiet before disaster hit the fan.

Please not now.

The furrowed brow, puckered lips, and brightening cheeks were all foreshadowing a temper tantrum I did not have time or energy to deal with at the moment. Was a French braid really the hill I wanted to die on? Fighting her would take more time than the braid would, and with the clock ticking out seconds with the speed of a burst pipe, I didn’t have the luxury of standing my ground.

Besides, she had said please.

“Fine.”

The storm brewing across her cherub face transformed into a sweet smile.

I didn’t let the relief washing through me mix with my guilt. That ever-present feeling was like an unwanted guest overstaying its welcome. But I had a plan. And someone on my team now. I was no longer a one-man show fighting a losing battle. With Miss Osbourne on board, the guilt shouldn’t find such a comfy place to reside. Parents had help raising children all the time—mother, father,