“Before.”
I know I’m looking at her like I don’t understand what she’s saying because I’m having trouble wrapping my head around it. “And he still married you?”
She nods and then stops and tilts her head almost like she’s going to change her mind and shake it side to side. “Yes. And no. I thought we were married. We never were, the license and certificate were fakes.”
“Jesus Christ, you two were perfect for each other.” I probably shouldn’t have said that, but it’s true. It’s so goddamn true.
“We were a fucking disaster.” She shrugs because there’s nothing more to say on the subject I’m sure. Fucking disaster sums it up.
I don’t want to talk about her dismal love life. “I want my kids here. Winter break ends, and school starts up again Monday. I’ll go in late to work and re-enroll them.”
“I can do it,” she offers.
“Really?” I sound doubtful and mocking.
She sighs and a little bit of the old defiant Miranda peeks through because that comment pissed her off. “I ran a goddamn Fortune 500 company, Seamus, give me some credit. I can fill out a few mundane forms.”
“Are you trying, Miranda? Is this you trying to be a parent? I want so fucking badly to believe you’re being real with me and that you’ve finally come to the realization that you have the most amazing children on the planet, and that it’s a privilege to be their mom.” I know I’m begging, but I want this for my kids. I want them to have a mom who loves them. I don’t care if she’s in my life, but I want her to be in theirs if she’s going to try.
“I’m trying, Seamus. I’m not perfect, and I don’t know how to do this, but I’m trying.”
“I’m only going to say this once, Miranda. Go all in or go away. This isn’t something you try and then get bored with like yoga and give it up. These are children who’ve been waiting their whole lives for a mom. Think about them. For once. You’re a mother, not a martyr.”
“I’m all in,” she says.
I hesitate because our past is screaming at me, Don’t believe her! She’s a liar! But then I remember Kai…and compassion…and shit, before I can talk myself out of it my mouth is sounding offers, “You can stay here for a month while you look for a job and a place to live. You’re sleeping on the couch, no one’s giving up a bed for you. If you don’t find anything in four weeks, you’re out. You can go stay in a hotel or sleep on the corner, I don’t care. My kids stay here during the week to go to school. We can discuss joint custody on the weekends. I’ll have my lawyer outline the new arrangement. And you’re paying the lawyer fees to straighten it all out because you fucked it up. And every goddamn day you better make an effort to be part of their lives. Do you hear me? Real, no pretending. You wake up and take them to school, and I’ll pick them up. You help them with homework a few nights a week. You play with them. You talk to them. And you can make dinner a few nights a week too.”
“Can I order takeout? I don’t cook.”
Nothing’s ever easy with her. I shake my head. “I don’t fucking care. Put some goddamn food on the table. This is about responsibility. You’re not going to be judged on your cooking abilities.”
She nods her head.
I feel like I’m talking to a child instead of an adult. “Can you do that?”
“Yes, I can do that,” she answers.
I reword for clarification. “Do you want to do that?”
She nods.
Shit.
I can’t believe I just agreed to this.
I hope she can.
Where’s the fucking butter?
present
I’m trying.
I’m really trying.
But this domestic shit is for the birds.
Cooking and baking should be easy. I have an IQ of 155. It’s just reading a recipe and following directions.
Apparently I’m awful at following directions because almost everything I’ve attempted this week has been inedible. I do it while Seamus and the kids are gone because I don’t want them to know I failed. I hide the evidence in the dumpster out back and order take out instead.