Page 2 of My Darling Mayhem

"Shoes, jacket and bag?"

He replied by checking off an invisible list: "Shoes, jacket, and bag."

I moved to turn off the hall light and ensure his bedroom switch had also been flipped. Our house wasn't something I would have been able to afford on my own, but my boss had a weak spot for me, and when one of their model homes didn't sell, she bought it and then rented it out to me. It was a modern two-bedroom with a generous floor plan and an office. Fresh white carpet framed the living room, where I'd placed a sectional couch facing a modest flat screen.

I'd found discount deals at home décor shops and, over the years, managed to create a home that made me feel relaxed when I walked into it and calm when I locked the door behind me. It had a fenced-in backyard for my son, and it was in a safe neighborhood.

As a teenager, I wanted to be seen for what my family name meant and how important that made me. I was obsessed with the idea of being attached to my father's legacy and would go as far as hanging around members who were dangerous to me at that age, all so I could be seen. Now, I wanted seclusion, a place to raise my son in peace without a single trace of my family.

"Shoes!" Cruz called out, breaking me out of my thoughts.

I briefly glanced in my bedroom mirror, ensuring my clothes weren't out of place. I had a few notes and pictures tucked into the solid oak frame. I placed things within my eyesight, so I had to face them when I looked at my reflection. That way, I'd never forget them or what impact they had on my life. My eyes wandered to the faded image of my ex, feeling a familiar ache of regret. Not that I missed him, but I hated what his absence and abandonment did to Cruz. My brother's face stared back at me in a photo from when he was a gangly teenager, and I was in middle school. He was giving me a side hug in the photo, and we both looked like nothing on this planet could ever come between us…what a lie that ended up being.

Let go, forgive.

Move on, Wren.

I distracted myself by running my fingers over my black dress, inspecting the small red cherries printed in little rows across the cotton fabric. It cinched in at the waist and had a cute frill along the bottom, which cut off just past my knees. I wore black heels, and my caramel-colored hair was pulled low on my neck, with lighter strands framing my face. My red lip color looked striking against my tan skin, and the dark lashes framing my amber eyes made me look younger than my thirty-five years. At least, that's what people were always saying when they found out how old I was. My mother's genetics made my skin look this smooth and my hair this silky soft; even my lashes were attributed to her.

Thinking of her had me glancing at the photo I had up, showing her solemn face after I gave birth to Cruz. Even holding her grandchild, she looked upset; it nearly made me laugh at how perfectly her it seemed. Which was why I kept the photo pinned there. My smile turned down as I remembered that she was the only person I told, and I made her swear not to say a single word to anyone else in the family…or to?—

"Mom!" Cruz yelled, pulling me from my thoughts.

I flipped the light off and grabbed my purse. "Lights."

He volleyed back. "Bag!"

I moved into the small hallway, past his bathroom, where I ensured the light was off, and then returned to the living room.

"Purse."

Cruz smiled up at me. "Jacket."

I pulled on a red cardigan and looked down at my son. We both smiled and said, "Ready."

The air was crisp as we walked outside. Part of the reason this model home had never sold was that the initial floor plan didn't include a garage. So, it sat vacant for months until it was finally offered to the local sales team. I didn't mind that there was no garage; I kept an umbrella by the door and wore thick coats on snowy days.

"Door?" Cruz asked, eyeing the lock.

I pulled my keys out and slid the silver into the top lock, turning it until it was secure.

This little game of ours was our way of making sure we were always paying attention and helped us to avoid forgetting things.

"Phone," I said out loud, following him down the steps. I glanced to the left, seeing the same view as I always did, with a brown fence separating my house from Mr. Plover's. I liked that my driveway was longer than several of my neighbors'; it allowed me more privacy. To my right was a similar-looking divider, but for a home that had just been built. It was strange to look up and see the two-story monstrosity whenever I left the house.

It was the last one to be completed on this street, so now our little neighborhood was whole, with a stretch of homes down each side of the street, white sidewalks, and well-manicured trees planted. At the end of the circular cul-de-sac was the newhouse, standing tall, like a sentry, watching over the rest of our meager one-story homes.

My focus returned to my son, who walked to the back door of my smaller sedan and placed his hand on the handle. "Lunch."

He knew I always forgot to pack one, and we didn't have time for me to run back inside, so I simply smiled.

"Lunch."

His features relaxed, and it made something in my heart ping around.

My son's love for me always made me emotional, which might have been why my eyes clouded the slightest bit with tears. My car didn't have a backup camera, so I used my mirrors to reverse while also blinking away the unbidden emotions when suddenly a motorcycle sped into the cul-de-sac. It was behind me so fast that I had to slam on my brakes, making us jerk against our seat belts. The coffee in my travel mug, which I could never find a lid for, splashed everywhere, and Cruz let out a tiny cry.

Enraged, I let the first thought fly from my mind unbidden, "What the fu—" but stopped the second my eyes flicked to the mirror, and I caught my son's worried look.

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