Page 84 of Enemy Daddy Next Door

“Yes, you’re right. And at the end of the day they like to crawl in bed and read about their friend Petunia and all her fun hijinks so they can rest and relax knowing that life isn’t all that hard, eh?” Kris snaps back.

I’ve never heard Kris angry. Doesn’t usually come with the territory of publishing children’s books.

“Tell her, Fiona.”

Fiona looks at me sheepishly. She’s the one I’ve been batting ideas around with. She thought this one might work. “It is a little…dower.”

Traitor.

“Understatement of the century,” Kris snorts.

“Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t be creative if I’m not writing what’s truly inside me,” I reply, trying my best not to let my racing emotions come forward.

“You don’t need to be creative. You have to write the damn book, Kitty.”

There’s that Kitty we know and love.

“So, what you’re saying is…” I’ve got to be careful about this. Last thing I want to do is have Kris throw me to the wolves. “I need to ignore my inspiration and write something that will sell you books.”

“Precisely!”

Ah, capitalism. A joy.

“You’ve got it, Kitty. Now.” Kris gets to her feet, grabbing her personalized leather portfolio off the table. “I’ve got another meeting to get to, but I’m sure Fiona will be happy to sit and have you bounce ideas off of her so that you can find the exactly right next upbeat happy not at all traumatizing idea for Petunia’s next adventure!” She throws the door open and waves over her shoulder. “Ciao!”

Fiona and I are silent for a good minute as I clean up the sample drawings I brought for the book I just pitched. Petunia’s Paternal Partner. The name isn’t catchy, I know. Gotta work on it. But it’s all a work in progress.

Including me.

“I’m sorry, Amy, I thought –”

“It’s fine. I don’t want to talk about it,” I say coldly.

Fiona sighs. “You don’t want to go through some ideas?”

“No, I don’t. I am out of ideas. I’m out of –” I let out a frustrated grunt. “I have nothing left to give. Not to you, not to anyone.”

Fiona’s eyebrows raise. “Oh.”

I slump my shoulders. Every day, I’ve been shrinking. Further and further until there will be nothing left of me to give anyone. “I have to go.”

“Okay, well, I’ll call you later if –”

“I won’t want to talk about Petunia later. Maybe Petunia’s done,” I say flippantly.

“You can’t mean that, Amy.”

I shrug, gathering up my purse and portfolio. “I don’t know.”

Fiona is reduced to silence, finally. I mutter a soft goodbye as I leave, clutching the folder of sketches to my heart.

When will I get to tell my story?

* * *

Mountain air does something for the lungs. Reaches down and tickles the insides, reminding us what it’s like to breathe.

When Dad asked me if I wanted to go for a hike, I nearly said no.

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