Page 16 of The Biker Needs A Nanny

I nod and dish up my plate. I fork a slice of ham and put it on Poppy’s plate and another on Ella’s. Then I do the same with the potatoes and green beans, spooning them each a serving.

Grace butters their rolls for them.

The girls say their little prayer again. When Melanie died, I swore I’d never thank God for another damn thing. Now I have to sit and listen to my girls do just that every night.

I eat without conversation, but the girls chatter away about all the decorations. I try to tune it out and concentrate on my plate.

When they both finish most of their food, my oldest asks Grace if we can have dessert.

“That’s up to your father,” she replies.

I look at my daughter and nod.

Grace goes to the kitchen and returns with a pretty white frosted cake covered in crushed candy cane. It’s nice, but my eyes focus in on the cake stand, remembering the last time I saw it.

Melanie carried in a birthday cake for Poppy. She was turning three. It was the last birthday my wife got to celebrate in this house. Poppy barely remembers her.

Anger at God fills me. He took her from me, from the girls. And now my house is decorated to celebrate the birth of His son. The unfairness of it all fills me.

“You want a big piece, Daddy?” Ella asks excitedly.

“I don’t like cake,” I snap.

The happiness on her face melts away in an instant, and she bows her head and stares at her plate. She picks at her piece of cake, all the joy gone.

And that, too, is my fault.

Poppy silently eats her cake, her eyes moving between me and Grace.

Ella asks if she can be excused. Grace has been busy teaching them manners—ones I’ve neglected. It’s just another reminder of how I’ve failed.

Grace looks at me to make that decision.

“Yes, baby. And I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m just tired.”

She doesn’t look pleased with my apology.

She and Poppy push their chairs in and carry their plates to the kitchen, then run upstairs.

“You don’t do Christmas?” Grace asks, drawing my eyes.

She looks pretty sitting there in the golden light of the chandelier that hangs over the table.

“We do Christmas. We have a tree.”

“Only because Santa needs a place to put presents?”

“That’s right. What of it?”

“Where is it?”

“It’s in the attic.”

“The girls want to decorate it.”

“Fine.” I stand and toss my napkin on my plate, then stomp up the stairs. What’s wrong with me? I’m acting like a goddamn two-year-old and I can’t seem to stop myself.

I yank the string and the access ladder drops from the hall ceiling. Trudging up it, I pull the cord for the light bulb and spot the green storage bag. I slide it across the plywood floor. It seems smaller than I remember. I drop it to the second floor, then reach for the box of ornaments.

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