Page 21 of The Wrong Boss

The past seven years had been…eventful. After Hailey and Seth’s wedding, I’d moved to Newark to be near them, seeing as I had nowhere else to go and I desperately needed support. I’d just found a job as a wildly underpaid receptionist at a nightmarish real estate management company—I’d been desperate for a job just to make ends meet—when I found out about the pregnancy.

Apparently, the fatigue, nausea, and overall feeling like my body was falling apartwasn’tdue to stress. Or not only due to stress. I was growing a whole other human while my world collapsed around me.

There was only one man who could be the father, one manwith whom I’d been intimate. That wild encounter at Hailey’s wedding hadn’t been free of consequences, after all. Cole and I had used protection the first time, but then the shower had happened. He’d pulled out, but…

Well. Evie existed. I’d never be able to claim that I was thinking clearly that day.

Looking back on it now, it was hard to put into words the turmoil I’d felt when I found out about the baby. I’d jumped out of the frying pan of my disastrous relationship with an ex who didn’t really care about me—and into the fire of single motherhood.

I’d looked for Cole. I’d gone back to the hotel and tried to find out his details, to no avail. I’d trawled through social media for him. I’d read countless software and business publications, hoping to see a glimpse of him in the news. I’d even looked for feel-good social media stories of people meeting their birth parents, in case someone had shared it.

I came up empty, and eventually I stopped looking.

All I had was a face and a first name. I didn’t even know which state he lived in—if he was in the States at all. We hadn’t talked about those things, despite sharing some of our deepest, darkest secrets with each other.

He was a ghost. As my pregnancy progressed, I’d had to focus on more pressing issues, like how I was going to feed and clothe and care for a newborn.

In the end, Evelyn was born, and everything else in my life flowed on from the decision to put her first, always. She was the center of my world, and I did my best to be everything she needed. I named her after my mother. She’d been created thevery day I’d lost that memory box, and it felt like a trade with the universe. I gave up trinkets and scraps of old paper, and I got the most perfect child I could have asked for.

The first few years had been hell. Not because Evie was difficult, but because she was a baby and I was in over my head with little support and a shaky safety net. Hailey and Seth had stepped in and let me move in with them. With shared living costs and with more hands on board to help, I’d gone from drowning to treading water to now—seven years later—feeling like I might actually be seeing land on the horizon.

Would I have wanted her to have a father and a stable home? Of course. But I couldn’t go back in time and change the decisions I’d made. In a lot of ways, I didn’t want to. The night Evie was conceived was carved into my bones. I’d never admitted it to Hailey—or anyone—but sometimes I looked at my daughter with her dark eyes and near-black curls, and I felt like Cole had been sent to me by a higher power. He’d given me the greatest gift anyone could have given me. A future. A reason for being.

Didn’t that make the struggle worth it?

“Mom!” Evie came thumping down the steps and rushed into the kitchen. “I can’t find my backpack!”

“It’s by the front door where you put it yesterday. Now sit. You need to eat before we go.”

“I’m not hungry! We’re going to be late!”

“You won’t be late,” Seth cut in, then nodded to a chair. “Sit with me. I don’t like eating alone.”

Evie let out a dramatic sigh, then slid into the chair next to Seth’s. I fixed her a plate and put it down in front of her,then kept an eye on her to make sure she ate at least part of it. My daughter was a ball of energy who often found eating to be a chore. She sustained herself on air and goldfish crackers, then turned into a hangry monster when her body rebelled. I assumed she got it from her father’s genes; I’d never had the mystical experience of “forgetting to eat.” If I was awake, my stomach was open for business.

Seth usually had more success than I did in getting her to calm down enough to sit for a full meal. He had the same effect on Hailey, and to a smaller degree on me. He was a steady, soothing presence in our home, and I knew he would be a great father.

Watching him interact with my daughter made my heart pinch. I was so incredibly grateful for his and Hailey’s presence in my and my daughter’s life, but I knew it could never replace having a father. I worried about what would happen when his real daughter showed up, if our welcome would wear out despite Hailey and Seth’s insistence otherwise. Yes, I cooked for the family more often than not. Yes, I made sure to take on more than my fair share of the housework, and I contributed to the bills as best I could.

But I was still a barnacle clinging to their happy life, waiting for the moment they’d scrape me off and toss me back into the sea.

I’d traded my dependence on Derek for a healthier but no less desperate dependence on Hailey and Seth. And although I knew that no one could survive without support, I still wondered how long it would take me to finally stand on my own—and if I coulddo it at all.

Ever since my breakup all those years ago, I’d nursed the secret, shameful belief that maybe I really couldn’t hack it on my own. Maybe Derek had been right all along.

“All right,” I said, checking my watch. That was all the encouragement Evelyn needed. She brought her plate to the sink, wiped her hands on a dishtowel, and then sprinted to the front door to check that her favorite backpack was packed with all the necessities. The bag was her favorite: a black, water-resistant shell with tiny bumblebee appliqués all over it, piped in bright yellow. She’d been terrified of bees when she was little, and I’d gone on a campaign to teach her about the insects in an attempt to limit the number of toddler meltdowns I had to navigate every summer. I hadn’t anticipated that my efforts would cause somewhat of an obsession in her, spawning many trips to the library and a particularly memorable visit to the American Museum of National History when they’d had a special bee exhibit on display.

After tucking the matching lunchbox into her special bee backpack, Evie zipped the bag up before slinging it over her shoulders and tightening the straps.

She reached for the front doorknob and I said, “Hold on. Let me get my shoes on.”

“Hurry up, Mom!”

“Hey now,” I chided, stabbing my feet into the slim leather loafers with a small heel that were stylish yet comfortable enough to see me through the day. “You be nice.”

Evie’s shoulders dropped. She walked over and pressed a dutiful kiss to my cheek, then went back to wait with her hand on the doorknob. I laughed at her half-hearted attempt atreparations—even though every kiss and hug from my daughter warmed my heart.

Glancing in the hallway mirror, I tamed a few flyaways then gave up and put my hair in a low bun, ignoring Evie’s dramatic six-year-old sighs of impatience. By the time I was ready to go, she was vibrating with excitement or nerves or both. Her hand was warm and soft as she slipped it in mine, and we set off toward the local elementary school.

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