Never Say Forever

“Mum-eeee!”

Yes, her.

Mummy.

Me, I mean.

Lulu appears by my side and tugs on my hand, her blue eyes wide and glittering. “We are so high! The tops of the twees look like broccoli!”

“Yummy, because broccoli is your favourite, right?”

“No, it’s yucky,” she replies emphatically. “Tante Rose says the trees are in a huge, huge park.”

“Auntie Rose said that, did she?”

“Yes, and that it even has a zoo! A zoo with amimals.”

“Animals, sweetheart.”

“That’s what I said. And it has a castle and an island and boats and hundreds and hundreds of playparks!”

“How many?”

“At least one-hundred-and-eleventy-two!”

I smile at her upturned face as she practically trembles with enough excitement for the two of us. No one ever prepares you for the wonders of parenthood—how a child’s delight can make your whole day. How love for a child can make you strive to be the best version of you. Well, when you’re not a sleep-deprived, leaking, feeding machine, but those days are behind us.

“Yes, and horsies! And-and I want to go on the horsies—”

“Those were carousel horsies,” Rose corrects, entering the room.

Lulu’s head whips around and back, her smile infectious. “Yes, like a merry-row-round.” I don’t correct her and not just because she’s cute. “Can we go there this afternoon? Can we? Please?”

I run my hand over her dark, silky waves, courtesy of her father’s genes. Genes being his sole contribution to parenthood. I might not have imagined a four-year-old as part of my New York daydreams, but now that I have, I can’t conceive of it being any other way. Lulu was a . . . surprise. Unplanned. And the absolute best thing that’s ever happened to me.

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“But I want to go today.”

And I want a unicorn that farts rainbows. No, on second thought, I want one that farts hundred-dollar bills, but you can’t always get what you want.

“We have too much to do today, but I know a wonderful girl like you will help me with all those very important jobs, which will mean we’ll then have all the time in the world to visit the park.”

“Time today?”

“No, sweetie, time tomorrow.” Her bright blue eyes narrow, and I know what’s coming next. Because as well as gorgeous dark hair and brilliant baby blues, her father also blessed her with a quick temper and stubborn streak that is approximately one mile wide. As sure as my bum seems to be heading south, she didn’t get her temper from me.

Lulu, or Eloise when I want her undivided attention, is what my mother describes as bold, which is just a polite way of saying she’s a bit of a handful. This, according to Rose, means she’ll be running the planet by the time she’s thirty. Which is preferable to being holed up in a penitentiary. “Or maybe we won’t have time until next week if you’re not going to help.”

“Bah! I’m only little. What do you ’spect me to do?” she retorts, her palms raised in the air.

“Lulu, honey, why don’t you go and choose your bedroom?” Rose interjects, causing my four going on twenty-four-year-old felon, I mean daughter, to dash from the room.

“I’m taking d’ biggest woom!” Seconds later, a crash resounds somewhere out of sight. “Oops! Was an accident!”

“Ah, hell.” I hurry after her, praying that accident wasn’t some family heirloom because this place just reeks of money, and my daughter is the kind of child who would find something to fall over in an empty room.

What does an apartment like this cost? Ten million dollars? Twenty? More? Numbers I can only imagine, at any rate. While the apartment is beautiful, the building is something truly special. Genteelly gothic; is that even a thing? The wrought-iron canopy set the tone the minute we got out of the cab. A liveried doorman, a marble lobby, original crown mouldings up the wazoo, this place was probably designed more than a century ago. I think I might’ve even spied a gargoyle out on the terrace.

“Doesn’t this place have a staff quarters or something? We’d be better off confining ourselves to it, if it has.”

“What?” Rose says, coming up from behind as I turn the—thankfully—undamaged urn upright. Undamaged and not filled with dear departed Uncle Algernon’s ashes, praise be. “Don’t be ridiculous. He said for you to make yourself at home, not to clean the home.”

“I’m certain it wasn’t an invitation to wreck the place.” One glance at the small bronze figurine sitting on the gleaming console table in front of a wall of windows, and I know this is a home that isn’t used to visiting children. Then from the corner of my eye, tiny, pudgy fingers creep across the table. “Leave it be,” I command, turning into my mother for a minute. It’s not hard to read Lulu’s intentions because she’s become a little light-fingered recently. I’ve put it down to the anxiety of moving to a new house, school, and country; the changes must be hard to process at her age. Hell, they’re pretty tough at my age, and they make me wonder why I’m doing this at all because yes, I’m drowning in a pool of my own guilt. Mummy guilt. The very worst kind! Not that you’ll find me using this as an excuse to pocket a piece of objet d’art that looks suspiciously like a Henry Moore.