Page 7 of Unexpectingly Happily Ever After

We look at Dirk. “That’s probably a good idea,” he says uneasily.

″Why?” Lycra sneers. “Your little girls afraid of what happens when they try and take out our best player?”

I can’t believe this woman. “Yes,” I say emphatically. “But I think you should worry what’s going to happen if you or your kid ever lays a hand on one of my children again.” I turn to Dirk. “I’m going to go now.”

With that, I stalk to the car holding Sophie and Ben by the hands, with Lucy tucked up beside her sister.

″I would have hit the kid, but she got there first,” Lucy said sullenly. I glance at her with surprise. I had no idea that she was so bloodthirsty. Sophie, yes, but Lucy is usually less aggressive than her sister.

″You can hit him next time,” Sophie tells her sister proudly.

″He tackledme, so I should be the one to hit him.” That is from Ben, never wanting to be left out of the sister bond.

″Nobody should hit anyone.” I sigh.

″I didn’t mean to cause a fuss,” Ben says in a voice so low I have to bend to hear it.

″This isnotyour fault!”

″No, it’s mine.”

I flip to Sophie’s sad face. “No, it’s that snot-nosed little brat who thought he could take out one of my kids. Doesn’t he know the wrath of the Bergen trips?”

″And their Momma,” Lucy giggles. “You were really mad at that lady.”

″Damn straight. Darn. I didn’t mean damn. Darn straight.” Try as hard as I might, I can’t seem to stop the swearing in front of the kids.

″But why did you make me say sorry that I hit him?” Sophie wonders. “I’m not sorry.”

We reach the car and I wait until all three are inside, tumbling into car seats, scrambling for seatbelts. I wait until they face me, two sets of identical brown eyes and one with blue and hazel. All three are wearing different expressions–sad, curious and faintly resentful. They’re not identical but the similar features make no question that they belong together. All of them have part of me, whether it’s Sophie’s chin, Lucy’s freckles along her cheeks along with my mixed eye colour, or the downturn of Ben’s mouth.

They have part of J.B. as well, but I like to focus on the parts ofme. After all, I’m the one who carried all three of them at once, making me as big and cumbersome as a manatee out of the water.

Then I take yet another deep breath, knowing I’m probably breaking most of the good parenting rules. “I’m not sorry you hithim either. But don’t tell anyone that. I love how the three of you defend each other and hope you never stop.”

″So it’s okay that I hit him?” Sophie asks with a confused tilt to her red head.

″No. It’s never okay to hit someone.” At least I got that part of the parent code right. “But if you do, make sure you don’t get caught.”

Chapter Three

The day should end at a time for the mother to relax and reflect on the challenges of the day. Perhaps a hot bath. The use of alcohol is not considered an effective method of relaxation.

A Young Woman’s Guide to Raising Obedient Children

Dr. Francine Pascal Reid, (1943)

“And then the mother kept screaming atmeand refused to listen when I tried to point out how it was her son who started everything by knocking over Ben. We were winning the game, by the way,” I finish my tale, sniffing appreciatively at the cabernet sauvignon Morgan had poured for me when I walked in. Another few mouthfuls and I’ll need a refill.

I tuck my legs underneath me on the couch. We’ve taken over Morgan’s living room with plates of lemon tart and brownies that J.B.sent with me, as well as bottles of wine. Morgan’s condo used to be a showplace of art and décor, tidy enough to be fastidious. I used to be afraid to walk barefoot around the place without a fresh manicure.

A lot has changed since Carson came along. Board books and squishy blocks have taken the place of Morgan’s collection of Swarovski crystal butterfly figurines and Tiffany candlesticks, which have been relegated to gathering dust on the top shelf. There’s a dollhouse set up in the corner of the room and a veritable world of Little People sets beside it.

I shudder when I see a doll’s head tucked among the glass balls Morgan has arranged in a bowl on the table behind the couch and make a mental note to remove it for her later.

″Why do parents always usewewhen they talk about their kids’ sports?” Brit asks, crossing her long legs on the couch beside me. ”Youdon’t play soccer, so why do you saywewon?”

I stare at Brit over the rim of my glass, swallowing the last few mouthfuls before holding my glass out for Morgan to refill.

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