Page 8 of Single Mom's Christmas Wish

The only person who might’ve known the whole story was Sally, my maternal grandmother. I was too young when my parents died, so I could possibly understand that being an excuse for them keeping me in the dark about everything. Maybe it was a messy divorce. Maybe Callie’s mother and Katherine, my paternal grandmother, cut Dad off. Or he just up and left like Keith did.

Either way, it made everyone’s lives more difficult.

“Katherine should’ve done right by you,” Chelsea declares as she helps Maisie with the butter for the dough while I mix the flour, baking soda, and salt. “You are her granddaughter as much as Callie.”

“Callie was first. Besides, they made it clear at Sally’s funeral that I’m not a Monroe, even if that’s my legal birthright name. I’ll never be a realMonroe, according to them.”

“Ugh, that uppity bullshit of upstate New Yorkers born with silver spoons in their fancy mouths. I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Want to puke?” Maisie asks matter-of-factly.

That has us doubling over with laughter before we mix together the wet and dry ingredients for the cookie batter. It’s so good to unwind like this. Spending quality time with my daughter and venting with my best friend. I’d missed Chelsea. I’m so glad she welcomed me with open arms when I came back from LosAngeles, my heart broken and my tail between my legs.

About an hour later, the three of us are settled on the sofa, watching a cartoon. Maisie has had her fill of chocolate chip cookies and milk and is in the process of dozing off, her head resting on a pillow in my lap.

“There’s nothing better than this,” I say with a mouthful of cookies.

“Peanut butter and chocolate,” Chelsea disagrees.

“Fair point,” I concede.

She gives me a long look. “You’ve been through a lot, Dakota. You should cut yourself some slack.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re always running around, always working, always mom-ing. You’re not taking care of your own needs,” she says. “I worry about you.”

When we were kids, Chelsea was always looking after me. My grandma Sally struggled financially after my parents died. It took a while for her to find a balance, during which time Chelsea’s family would often have me over for lunch or dinner. I know this house inside out. I know every corner, and I remember every nook and cranny. To see her worrying about me now, though, it tugs at my heartstrings.

“Listen, I’ll admit I’ve made my share of wrong turns when I was convinced that I was doing the right thing,” I tell her. “When I left for Los Angeles, you kept up Sally’s place for me. You called, you checked in… honestly, it didn’t even feel like we were ever really apart while I was married to Keith. Hell, you spotted the red flags in my relationship long before I became aware of them.Had I listened to you back then, maybe his departure wouldn’t have come as such a shock. But I’ve got this, Chelsea, I promise. I’ve got this.”

“Just remember you’re not alone,” she insists. “Stop talking like you can move these mountains on your own, please. It puts unnecessary pressure on yourself, and believe it or not,” she glances at my daughter and lowers her voice, “Maisie can feel it, too.”

I give her a worried look. “Has she said anything?”

“Only that you were so proud when she got her IQ test results, but then sad because you couldn’t afford to enroll her in Prescott Academy.”

“Ah, right. Yeah, that was a bummer. But that isn’t something she should be concerned with.” I look down at my daughter, sleeping peacefully on my lap. It breaks my heart to know that she shared with Chelsea that she’s worried about me.

“How did that come about?”

“Maisie is exceptionally intelligent, as you already know,” I reply in a lowered tone, helping myself to another cookie. “Her kindergarten teacher referred me to a specialist last month. He spent about an hour asking Maisie questions, playing some special cognitive games with her, and then had her do one of those Mensa-approved tests. A week later, he reached out and said he was ready to give Maisie a letter of recommendation for Prescott Academy.”

“That’s like the Harvard of primary schools, huh?”

“More like the MIT. Maisie’s mathematical and logical skills are out of this world, according to Mr. Danvers.”

“The guy who tested her?”

I nod once. “Yeah. He’s a former Prescott kid himself. He urged me to get her enrolled.”

“But the cost…”

“About eighty grand a year. It’s an insane amount, Chelsea. I can’t possibly afford that, and even with a scholarship, she still wouldn’t be able to go. They don’t give full rides.”

My heart hurts just remembering the entire conversation. I was so happy and so proud of my baby girl, wondering where she got such colossal smarts. Definitely not from Keith. I want what’s best for my daughter, and I know that she will struggle in normal schools. She’ll be ahead of everybody else academically, and the other kids might bully her. She’ll feel like a misfit, and there is only so much I can do as her mom to quell that. Getting her enrolled in Prescott Academy would’ve meant she’d have a safe place to learn, where her brilliant mind would be nurtured and celebrated.

“Chelsea, what was I thinking?”

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