Page 37 of Seven of Hearts

Shit. Was that a terrible thing to say about my mother?

The smell of roasted chicken was welcome, and I let out a relieved breath at dodging a homemade sushi boat.

I hoped my baby bee would accept the chicken and not make me throw up. This was the last place I wanted to get sick.

A wave of nausea washed over me as if I had conjured it.

No, no, no. . .

Before I could bolt, my father walked in from his office. He was a little gentler than my mother, but still just as frosty.

“Hello, darling,” he said as he kissed my cheek.

“Hi, Dad.”

And that was that. No hugs. No prompts to sit down and tell him about my day or what I had been doing at work.

It made me think about all the times Luca and Maddie DeRossi or Hannah Jane and Isaac Lawson came to pick up their kids from me, and the immediate hugs and conversations about their day and how they were feeling.

I wanted to go give Gio and Ellie the biggest hug right now. But it was time to face the music.

The click of my mother’s sensible, yet pricey pumps echoed down the hallway.

“Can I help you finish dinner?” I asked, hoping to move this night along. “It smells great.”

Mom glanced at the clock. “Not yet, though I appreciate the offer. The chicken still has about another half hour in the oven.”

My eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Oh? Did I get the time wrong? I thought you had said to come over at six.”

“I thought we could talk before dinner,” Mom said as she grabbed a bottle of wine and uncorked it.

Oh no.

She left the bottle to breathe while she walked to the china cabinet and picked out a glass.

Okay. Maybe she was just pouring herself a glass, and I could avoid wine until after dinner when I told them.

She grabbed three more glasses, brought them over to the kitchen island, and began to pour, then offered the first to me.

Today was not my day.

“Thanks, but I probably shouldn’t drink.”

She raised a judgmental eyebrow. “Are you currently taking medications where alcohol consumption is not advisable?”

“No,” I muttered as the doorbell rang.

My dad dipped out of the kitchen to go see who it was, taking the interruption to escape the cold war.

“Speak up, Leah. It’s not polite to mumble. You know better than that. It’s also not polite to turn down a glass of wine when offered. It’s not like we’re getting sloshed.”

I would have paid good money to see my uptight mother get drunk off her ass.

“I can’t drink,” I said a little more firmly. If I was going to be a mother, then dammit, I was going to use my mom voice.

The front door opened and closed, and footsteps neared.

She was taken aback by my tone. “And why on earth is that?”

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