Page 19 of Reclaim Me

“I think he had an early meeting,” I offer, making my way over to the refrigerator to pull out the ingredients for the pancakes Riley requested I make for breakfast. If I time it right, they’ll be done by the time she wakes up.

“A meeting?” She tilts her head to the side, studying my every move while also somehow managing to keep track of any changes to my expression. “Before six in the morning?”

I shrug. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but you’d be surprised by how many breakfast meetings I’ve watched Aaron spend the night prepping for before he was promoted to VP of Business Development.”

Technically, it’s not a lie. It’s more of an exaggeration, meaning over the course of our entire relationship, I’ve only ever heard of Aaron having one breakfast meeting. And when that happened, he swore he’d never agree to have another one once he got promoted. Lucky for me, Marcy doesn’t know any of that.

She rounds the island and takes a seat across from me with her coffee still in hand. I sigh internally, wishing she would go on with whatever plans she has for the day so I can have some time to figure out my next steps with Aaron. We never fight. Like ever. That’s one of my favorite things about him, about us. We’re steady. Everything about our life, from the restaurant we go to on date night to the day we have sex, is predictable. There are no surprises or variations, just smooth sailing on still waters.

No bumps.

No waves.

Just us.

I don’t want that to change just because New Haven has thrown us curve balls in the form of my ex…and his mother.

“It’s just that—” Marcy starts, pausing to take a sip of her coffee. “I could have sworn I heard you two arguing last night when I was upstairs with Riley.”

“Nope,” I say, slamming the buttermilk down a little harder than necessary. “Speaking of Riley, do you think you could go see if she’s up?”

She glances up at the ceiling and then back at me. “I don’t hear her, but I’m certain she’ll get up when her alarm goes off.”

Unable to think of a single response that doesn’t involve me screaming, ‘that’s not what I asked you,’ I focus all of my attention and frustration on assembling the batter while Marcy watches in silent judgment she doesn’t voice until I’m moving the last pancake in the batch from the pan to Riley’s plate.

“I never made Aaron pancakes for breakfast on a school day.” She shakes her head to really emphasize her point. “All that sugar so early in the morning isn’t good for kids.”

Placing the plate in the microwave so the pancakes stay warm, I decide it’s best to keep my response short. “Well, it’s what she wanted for her first day breakfast.”

“It’s not good to give a child everything she wants, Rae. Pancakes for breakfast on a weekday. Special dinners when she doesn’t like what’s been prepared.” Once again, her head goes from side to side, signaling her disapproval. “Keep it up, and you’ll ruin her.”

I wipe my hands on a dish towel and turn to face her, gifting her with my most insincere smile. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing she’s mine to ruin.”

“That’s a terrible way to look at things, dear. It takes a village to raise a child, and Aaron and I are your village. We have been since you and Riley came into our lives, which means Riley is just as much ours as she is yours.”

My brows pull together, forming a line so tight it makes my head hurt. But the pain from the headache is nothing compared to the fire burning inside my chest, ignited by all of my maternal instincts coming online at the same time.

“Let’s be clear about something, Marcy. I appreciate everything you and Aaron have done for Riley, but at the end of the day, she is my daughter. Mine. Which means I will always be in charge of making decisions for and about her. If I want to make her pancakes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, I will do exactly that, and I won’t so much as pause to ask what anyone else thinks about that choice.”

“Pancakes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner?” Riley asks excitedly as she bounds into the kitchen with her school uniform already on. She looks at me with bugged-out eyes as she takes a sit next to Marcy. “For real, Mommy?”

Contrary to what Marcy might believe, I’m not actually fool enough to feed a nine-year-old pancakes three times a day, so I shake my head at Riley and force a laugh. “No, Nugget, I was just being hyperbolic.”

“Hyperbolic,” Riley repeats the word several times while I retrieve her plate from the microwave. By the time it’s in front of her, along with a fork, knife, syrup, and a cup of milk, she’s decided that she likes the way it feels on her tongue, and I hear her singing it to herself in between bites of her food.

“I’m going to get dressed,” I say to no one in particular. “Riley, when you’re done eating, put your dishes in the sink, and then come upstairs so we can wash your face and do your hair.”

I don’t bother waiting around for her response because I know she’ll listen. Riley is a good kid, and I rarely have to repeat myself when I set clear expectations with her. For that reason, and so many more, I take offense to Marcy acting like taking my daughter’s preferences into consideration is going to turn her into some entitled monster.

So many adults seem to forget that kids are people with their own thoughts and opinions and desires. As a parent, it’s my job to give Riley space to express all of those things, and when her requests are reasonable, age-appropriate, and within the realm of possibility, I do my best to give her the things she asks for, so she knows that I care enough to go out of my way for her.

“Do you think the other kids in my class will know what hyperbolic means?” she asks as we pull up to Hartwick Academy, the best private school in New Haven. I glance at her through the rearview mirror and find that she’s twiddling her thumbs.

“I’m not sure, Nugs. If they don’t, I’m sure you’ll do a great job of introducing them to it.”

She nods, glancing out the window to take in the stately, white brick walls covered in vines of ivy. There are students pouring into the building from every direction in groups of varying sizes. My heart lurches as four girls around Riley’s age pass by the car, talking and laughing with matching Coach satchels bouncing on their hips. They look like they’ve known each other forever, and their familiarity seems to drive home how new and unfamiliar everything will be for Riley. The school. The teachers. The kids. The social scene. My baby won’t know anything or anyone, and the thought makes me want to press the gas and take her far away from it all.

“Are you going to stop the car, Mommy?”

---