Page 178 of One Big Little Secret

He’s awake when I get up, though, sitting at the kitchen table with an overflowing bowl of cereal I left out last night.

“I did it, Mommy!” he tells me proudly as he digs in. There’s milk splattered around his bowl.

“Have you got enough there, big guy?” I ask, grabbing a dishrag. It’s still so early the sun has barely risen, though that just means it’s around seven this time of year. “I was going to make you pancakes.”

“Pancakes?” In his excitement, he hits the spoon and cereal flies everywhere.

I stare at the milk slowly dripping on the floor, trying to shoot him a scolding look before I break down and laugh.

If we were at Patton’s, in his gleaming modern kitchen, he’d just chuckle and wipe it away with a damp cloth and a joke. Here, on my own, it feels more like I’m on trial.

Another chore.

Another mom dilemma where I have to pretend I’m a shining example of a human being and not an immature gremlin.

Another cute, stinging momentalone.

What else is new? Rinse and repeat.

“I love pancakes,” Arlo tells me, like I’m not well aware. They’re at the top of the list for bribing him to start a good day, up there with pizza and ice cream. “Are you gonna make them now, Mommy? Can we have banana and choc-lit chip?”

“First, I need to clean up the mess you’ve made. Then we’ll see.”

He has the grace to look a little ashamed, but he perks up quickly. “That won’t take you long.”

No, it won’t, but it sure as heck would go faster with another person here to ease the burden.

I hate these thoughts.

I hate my brain for having them.

Just like I hate the way I’m constantly comparing my past mistakes to Patton’s life on a gold pedestal.

Deep down, I don’t think I’m worthy.

And I also have the awareness to know I’m not becauseI’mthe only one thinking it. The Rorys were incredibly nice to me, or else money taught them to hide their mean streak way better than my parents ever did.

Still.

It feels like it can’t last.

Someone or something has to come along the minute I’m settled in and burst the bubble—and there’s a good possibility that something isme.

It’s not like I’m new to self-sabotage.

“Where’s my tablet? I can’t find it!” Arlo asks loudly as I wipe down the chair leg and catch the last milk splattering the floor.

“I don’t know, sweetie.”

“Help find it, Mommy. Please?” Thepleaseis tacked on as a question, but at least it’s there. That took long enough to get him to memorize.

“I can’t do both right now. I only have two hands,” I tell him. “Have you checked under your bed?”

While Arlo pops up and zooms around the house, searching high and low, I get started on the pancakes. I really hope the tablet turns up. He’ll be sad and bored out of his wits for days if it doesn’t.

If Patton was here, he’d help with the cooking or the tablet hunt, I’m sure.

Instead, I’m tripping over my son and his zoomies while I crack eggs into a bowl.

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