Page 32 of Single Mom's Christmas Wish

That’s a hard pill to swallow. And a harsh truth. I can’t fault Chelsea for saying it aloud. Someone had to. It’s enough to stop me in my tracks and admit to myself that I have gone overboard. I have, in fact, neglected myself on several levels while going out of my way to make sure my daughter doesn’t miss out on anything.

“Right now, you’re dealing with a crisis. This foreclosure thing will only get worse,” Chelsea adds while I linger next to my purse and keys on the counter. “Forget Prescott Academy for now. It's not going to happen, even if she does qualify for the most generous of their scholarships. Maisie will do fine in a regular school.”

“Chelsea, I’m well aware,” I reply, rubbing my face. “I keep telling myself the same thing, I swear. But I just wish I could figure out a way to, I don’t know—”

“Fork out tens of thousands of dollars a year for an uppity school?”

“Prescott Academy is so much more than that.”

“Yeah, yeah, gifted kids and whatever. But come on, how many gifted kids are there living in the slums, including here in the States? How many brilliant children aren’t even considered by Prescott Academy because they’re poor? Those folks are an elitist bunch, like the rest of America’s Ivy League. In fact, they’re worse because they’re basically telling young children that if their parents are poor, they’ll never have a place at their fancy schmancy table of future leaders and scientists, which we both know is absurd, cruel and unfair.”

I nod slowly. “You make a fair point. But Prescott Academy has these special programs that could really help Maisie get fartherahead in life. It’s a straight line into MIT, too. They’re working with specialists in developmental science, Chelsea. They treat every child like their most valuable and most precious project, but without overwhelming them, without the risk of burnout or anxiety. They don’t even start testing until the kids are twelve or older. And they have so many options. They don’t offer those options anywhere else, not at that level, anyway.”

“Dakota, listen to yourself. You’re dreaming about something unattainable while struggling to keep your house.”

“I’m not stupid,” I say, feeling the tears working their way up to my eyes.

“You just don’t want Maisie to go without things like you did,” Chelsea replies, giving me a sympathetic smile. “I know, babe. And I get it. Honestly, that makes you a better mother than most. But part of this thing we like to call a life experience is learning when to let go. When to hit the brakes and change direction, if only slightly, to find a better path forward. And you need a better path.”

“Do you want more coffee?” I ask, abruptly changing the subject. I’ll mull over what she said, but I’ve reached my bandwidth for this particular topic. I’m exhausted, and I’m not yet ready to admit defeat. “There’s a box of espresso machine pods in the cupboard just above the stove.”

“I’m good for now, thanks,” Chelsea replies. I will always appreciate her for not insisting when she could easily drive that same point home a thousand times. She lets me figure the conclusions out on my own. As my friend, all Chelsea can do is guide me toward the right door. I’m the one who’s supposed to walk through it. “How are the guys?” she asks, slightly narrowing her eyes.

She’s searching my face for micro-expressions before I even answer.

“They’re good. Still working out their issues with Trevor, but they’re doing their best and everything that they can, just like every other parent in that club.”

“How is it working out? Your, what do I call it, relationship? Is it a relationship, or is it just a fling?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure. They take me out. They treat me to the finest dining experiences. We go out with the kids on weekends. It may be unconventional, but it’s definitely more than a fling. It has to be because we have these deep conversations, and they’re getting to know me better while I’m certainly getting to know them better. And in the middle, there’s just… us. It’s working out incredibly well, and I am genuinely happy when I’m with them. I just don’t know where it’s headed.”

“Where could it possibly be headed?” Chelsea asks.

“You’re not helping,” I grumble and finally grab my bag, ready to step out.

“Don’t be mad at me.”

“It’s the reality I’m mad at, not you,” I say as I head for the door. “I’ll be right back.”

And when I return, Chelsea will be there, affectionately waiting for me. By the time I’m done with the groceries, Maisie will probably be up as well. The girls know the morning drill by now. Gosh, how can life be so beautiful yet so aggravating at the same time? It’s a mixed bag, and I never know what the hell I’m going to get.

My phone buzzes as I walk into the grocery store two blocks down from my house. I check the screen. It’s a text from Keith. Instantly, my stomach drops.

“What the hell does he want?” I mutter, then read the message.

I miss you.

Nausea builds up in the back of my throat. Anger and grief return to pummel me as I put the phone away. He’s been texting me recently, once or twice a day. Nothing of substance, just tiny bits and pieces meant to rattle me. I wonder if he does that with every woman he meets these days. Or does he love-bomb them into an actual relationship only to dump them afterward? I shudder when I think about the unfortunate subject of his affection nowadays.

You’re eight months behind on your child support, I text him back. I always reply with these same specific words. It usually shuts him up.

I’ll make it up to you, he says.

Now, I’m pissed. How dare he? Over the past year, he’s been living it up on cruise ships and rubbing elbows with rich folks, probably screwing their wives while mixing their martinis, enjoying his newfound freedom while I’ve been working my ass off to raise our daughter alone. Only for him to come around again and make passes at me? Seriously?

You must’ve contracted some kind of fever in the Caribbean.Eight months. Pay up, or I will get the lawyer involved.

Green suits you.

---