The Wrong Kind of Love

You don’t know sadness until you try to explain to a little girl that her mommy isn’t coming back, and I’d do about anything to protect Lilly from feeling that kind of sadness again.

For three years, I’ve been leaning on my mother, and she’s helped me raise my daughter. While Mom was happy to step in, and loves Lilly more than anything, I also know she’s dreamed of traveling her whole life. She couldn’t do it when her kids were small, and then when we were grown, Dad was too sick to go with her. Now, Dad’s gone, and she’s getting older. When her old friend from college invited her on this three-month trip to Europe, I knew I had to help make it happen.

I never expected Mom to put her life on hold after Elena died. But one year turned into the next, and it was as if I’d barely blinked and Lilly was starting kindergarten. When Mom gently suggested a temporary live-in nanny so she could take this trip, I agreed. When she suggested that I might ask the temp nanny to stay on long-term if she seemed like a good fit, I didn’t argue.

It’s better this way. I’m called to the hospital at all hours of the day. I need someone who’s always there. I just can’t think about it too much, because that someone was supposed to be Elena. I wanted her to be the one I knew would be home with my child when I delivered a baby in the middle of the night. I wanted her to be the one I’d come home to when I was exhausted after too many hours stuck at the hospital.

“I know it’s hard,” Mom says. She reaches into the dishwasher to rearrange the dishes I’ve already loaded. “And I’m telling you now, Ethan, if you try this and it doesn’t work, we’ll figure something out.”

I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment and shake my head. “You’ve done enough, Mom. I’ve let you do too much.”

She presses a hand to her chest and her eyes fill with tears. “It wasn’t a hardship. Lilly is the light of my life.” She smiles. “Next to all my children, of course.”

I grunt. “Sure, Mom.” We all know that Lilly, her first and only grandchild, ranks far above all of us, but we wouldn’t have it any other way.

“You don’t have to decide right away whether or not you want to offer Veronica the position permanently. Give yourself a couple of months to see if you’re a good fit. I just hope you like her as much as I do.”

I shake my head. “How do you pick someone to raise your child?”

“She’s not raising her, she’s helping.”

We both know that’s not true. When you’re a single parent working sixty or more hours a week, the person you hire for childcare is as responsible for raising your child as you are, if not more.

“So, I’ll see you tonight, then,” Mom says.

I nod. “Thanks for taking care of this.”

“I know how hard it is for you. And I know how much you miss her.”

My throat is thick, and it’s a familiar feeling. I’ve endured three years of grief and a guilt that never loosens its hold. The thickness in my throat and the knots in my stomach are my new normal. Some days are better than others, but today’s going to be hard because today I meet the new nanny—the woman who will have so many experiences with Lilly that Elena never will.

Nicole

How on earth is my sister on my honeymoon on a sunny beach and I’m in freezing-cold Michigan, cleaning up her mess?

My stomach squeezes.

I found the note in Veronica’s calendar about meeting Kathleen Jackson at the Ooh La La! coffee shop at noon. Teagan insisted I borrow her coat and a couple of outfits, and that I “keep an open mind” about working with the Jacksons.

So, here I am, dressed in Teagan’s black leggings and oversized red sweater, sipping on a latte and trying to decide what to do next. Do I run out the door or do the right thing and let these people know the woman they hired won’t be coming?

The coffee shop is adorable. The barista greeted me with a cheerful smile and asked me half a dozen questions about what brought me to Jackson Harbor. When she found out I have a meeting with Mrs. Jackson, she acted like I was meeting local royalty. Apparently, the Jackson ancestors founded Jackson Harbor in the early 1800s and are responsible for a lot of the city’s longstanding traditions. After giving me that history lesson, she offered me some handcrafted chocolates, which looked amazing, but my stomach isn’t up for anything like that yet, so I passed.

I stare out the window as I wait, marveling at how winter has already settled over this town, when back at home in Alabama, the leaves have just hit peak autumn color. Maybe I’ll stay here for more than a few days. Maybe I’ll stay the whole winter. I’ll hibernate—cocoon and be reborn. Figure out who I am.