Page 4 of Good and Gone

“All right, guys, let’s get ready for school,” I call over my shoulder as I watch Tyler reverse down the driveway. The kids have already wandered down the hall, sleepy-eyed and a bit grumpy. In other words, it’s another morning.

After posting several images to my stories, one of the sunrise with an inspirational quote about living in the moment, and another of my matcha tea, both of which were meant to look like they were taken this morning, but were clearly not, I turn on my heel and clap my hands as to saychop, chop. No one looks up. Their noses are glued to the screens of their devices, ignoring me with the same frequency that they ignore each other. I hate that we didn’t hold out longer—and set better rules around screen time, especially—but it’s the only way we can get any peace.

“Hello!” I yell at them. “Earth to Mason!”

“Pot meet kettle,” Lily says, mocking her father’s voice.

“Mason!” I shout, ignoring her. He’s sitting at the bar, throwing Cheerios into the air. A few make it into his mouth, but most of them land on the floor at his feet.

I scoop up a handful and toss them in his direction. “I can’t afford to feed the floor, young man.”

“Mom!” he whines. “You made me lose my game.”

And you made me miss an orgasm, I want to say, but I bite my tongue. Considering that they have already managed to make a disaster of my kitchen—forgetting to shut the refrigerator is the latest hassle—it might be best if I keep my mouth shut.

So instead of saying anything else, I turn away and make a mental note to get one of those devices that allow you to communicate your needs without speaking—some version of Siri or Alexa. Tyler refuses to allow them in the house. He says they’re all spyware.

I say at least then I could give commands while putting out little fires everywhere. I probably would have even remembered the muffins, if I’d been able to shout them onto a magic list, and then we’d both be a little happier right now.

An ear-shattering shrieking intrudes on my planning.

“What's wrong?” I ask, turning to my daughter. For a second, I’m concerned that she’s grabbed my phone. I know there are at least a handful of highly inappropriate pictures in my DMs and possibly some that are violent and graphic in nature, as well. I usually go through and delete and block them first thing, but this morning has been chaotic. Sometimes I let Tyler handle it, but the last time really rattled him, and it turned into an argument. With nearly two million followers across several platforms, there are bound to be some creeps among them. When I told him as much, he only shook his head and said there were easier ways to make a living.

“I can't find my shoes,” Lily cries, a pout on her face, and I’m so relieved it’s only shoes that I’m not even annoyed.

I’ve planned for this. What she means is that her shoes are not where she left them. Lily doesn’t react well when things are not as she expects them to be. “They're next to the door, sweetie.”

I watch, partially holding my breath as she pulls them out from her cubby in the mudroom.

She stares at the shoes and then lifts narrowed eyes to mine, and I exhale, knowing it’s futile. “I thought you were going to wash them,” she says, holding them up for my inspection. “You promised!”

“I forgot,” I say with a hint of remorse—more for my sake than hers. “You're right,” I tell her, taking them from her chubby fingers. “You can't wear these. They're filthy.”

My daughter needs things to be a certain way, and I have failed her. “I told you! You never listen,” she says, sounding very much like her father. She watches me pack her lunchbox, inspecting my every move. “Why can’t you ever listen?”

There’s the part of me that takes Lily’s special needs into account, and then there’s the other part, the mother, the fighter, the part that knows she must be strict despite Lily’s differences. The world will not cater to my daughter’s whims, special needs or not.

“I’m not arguing with you,” I say. “Put on your boots. We're leaving.”

She stomps defiantly over to the door and grabs her boots from the shoe rack then throws them on the floor next to the door.

“You're slinging mud everywhere, Lily,” I say, crossing the kitchen. “Great. Look. Now we have mud all over the floor.”

“I hate you!” she shouts.

“I hate you too,” I mumble under my breath. I don't mean it, of course, and neither does she. Instantly, I feel terrible. I’m supposed to be the one who keeps it together, who sets the example, and yet, I’m no better than my six-year-old. I glance at myself in the mirror, noting the bags under my eyes, wondering if I have any of those cooling eye patches left under the sink. I can’t go to work looking like this. My face is my work.

“I’m sorry,” I say, even though I know she didn’t hear me. She’s currently stomping around the kitchen and screaming. “I’m just tired.”

Last night was a particularly bad night for her. The man came again. For weeks, she’s insisted that a man sits in his car in front of our house.

“This man,” I said last night, so exhausted I was willing to play her game. “He wants to do bad things to our family?”

“Not to our family,” she says, shaking her head. “Toyou.”

“To me?” My breath caught. “Why?”

“He thinks you’re not a good mommy.”

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