Page 18 of Surrender
“No, it’s not! There are girls from my school that play.”
Smiling, I slip under the covers on her bed, turning on my side to face her. She turns to face me as well. We’re nose-to-nose in her tiny single bed. Brown eyes on brown eyes. Brown hair mixing in with brown hair. My little mini-me. I bring my hand up and brush the tips of her dark lashes. She flutters her eyes closed as I stroke her lids, marvelling at how her lashes are longer than mine, which is saying something because mine have been mistaken as fake. I trace her perfectly imperfect eyebrows in need of a tweeze if they were on anyone other than the cutest little seven-year-old I’ve ever seen.
Once upon a time, she didn’t have eyebrows. She didn’t have lashes. She didn’t have hair. I run my hand through her long strands, thick and lush. Full of renewed life.
She lived.
My baby lived through something no child should ever have to endure. The Big C is an awful thing to happen to anyone. But when it happens to a six-month-old, it’s spirit-crushing. Regardless, this bright, shining star survived and we’ve been cancer-free for four years. Now I’m laser focused on hitting that magical five-year remission milestone when I’ll finally be able to breathe again.
Four years down, one to go.
Thankfully, she rarely speaks of her time in the hospitals anymore. Her thoughts are now in the present and future…of her life here in England.
Hence football.
Hence Mummy.
Hence me having a British daughter and needing to get over it one of these days.
“Please,Mom, can I play football?”
I drop a soft kiss on her head. “Soph, let’s give it one more year. I’ve seen a couple soccer games, and they can get pretty physical. I think you’re too young to be worrying about sports quite yet anyway.”
Her furry little eyebrows pinch together in the most adorably serious way. It takes great effort to bite back my smile.
“I’m not too little. I’m big. There are kids littler than me playing already.”
Shaking my head slowly, I reply, “Not this year, sweetie. Maybe next year.”When you’ve hit the five-year mark.
She huffs out an angry grunt and rolls away from me, scowling at the wall. I kiss the back of her head and slip out of the bed. Flicking off the overhead light, I whisper, “Good night, Sopapilla.”
She sniffs haughtily. “Good night, Mummy Gumdrops,” she mumbles into the pillow.
Maaahhhmmmy,I think to myself and step out of her bedroom to close the door. Exhaling heavily, I make my way downstairs and turn right toward the kitchen, craving a cup of something a hell of a lot stronger than British tea.
“Hiya,” Freya chirps from behind the sewing machine she has set up on the long oak table in the dining area that we’ve repurposed into a sewing room.
“Hey.” I lean over the table to glance down into the coffee mug beside her. “Whatcha drinking?”
“Tea,” she responds with a smirk. “And by tea I mean chardonnay of the chilled variety.” Her round, freckled cheeks pull back into a wide smile. “Want me to get you a cup?”
“Please.” I smile graciously and take the seat across from her by my own machine. I glance down at the red Gucci shift dress she’s taking in for one of the Man U players’ wives and wish I could be working on it instead of her.
Freya makes her way into the galley style kitchen, her round hips swaying as she walks. She’s a pleasantly plump redhead with freckles everywhere as far as the eyes can see. We met when I ran an ad online looking to hire a seamstress to work for me as my client base grew beyond my means. My background is in clothing and textile design, so I know my way around a sewing machine, but I couldn’t do the alterations and the merchandising. And Freya is a whiz with a seam ripper.
She’s been a lifesaver for me the past year as both a friend and a colleague. Her constant good mood and fun zest for life have made my weeks without Sophia a smidge more bearable. Who knows the mess I’d be without her.
Freya places a matching kitten coffee mug of wine in front of me. “Mmm, good tea.” I giggle and take a fortifying sip.
Freya sits back down and nods oh-so seriously. “It’s herbal.”
I shake my head. “The best ones always are.”
We both snicker for a moment, but her face drops as she says, “Sunday tomorrow.”
I take a deep breath. “Sunday tomorrow.”
“Think you might not cry this time?”
