I drop the spatula in the pan, turn off the stovetop, and turn around. “Melody, honey, you need to stop thinking that way. Your daddy and I are never, ever, ever getting back together.” Thank you, Taylor Swift, for reminding me that I am not the only woman in the world in this position.
“Not if he has a girlfriend,” she says, pouting.
“No, not if he does and not if he doesn’t. It just isn’t going to happen.”
“But don’t you love him?” Melody asks, nearly crying. Both of the girls are staring at me now, waiting for my answer.
How do you tell your children that you’ve seriously considered running their father over with your car on more than one occasion? That you cannot remember what you ever saw in him? That you think he’s a lying scumbag who doesn’t deserve to even be their father?
I sigh. There is no way to say these things. You just have to lie or dance around the truth. I always try dancing first . . .
“Babies . . . I love that your daddy gave me the three most beautiful children on the planet. I got very lucky meeting him.”
“You’re avoiding the question,” Sophie, the too-smart-for-her-own-good child, says.
“Who wants eggs?” I ask brightly, not ready to step knee-deep into the lies this morning.
“They stink. I’d rather have pancakes,” Melody says, holding her nose closed.
I whip around and start shuffling pans around. “Pancakes it is!” I’m not normally the kind of mom who runs a restaurant with a full menu out of my kitchen, but at this point I’ll do anything to avoid a conversation about Miles. “You girls go get dressed, and by the time you’re done, the pancakes will be ready.”
They slide from their stools and shuffle off to their rooms, grousing at each other the entire way.
Once again, I’m left to deal with the fallout that comes from Miles spending a day and a half with our kids. Sammy’s sick from all the sugar, and the girls are suffering the aftereffects of crashing down from a glucose high, manifesting as extreme fatigue and crankiness. I won’t be one bit surprised when the nurse calls from school today to tell me my girls need to be picked up.
I reach over as I’m pouring some Aunt Jemima pancake mix into a bowl to grab my phone so I can call my boss. Might as well get it over with.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I’m staring at the phone, not quite believing what I just heard.
“What do you mean, I don’t need to bother coming in?”
My boss’s laugh is decidedly uncomfortable. “What I meant was that we’re going to be doing a little restructuring in the coming weeks, and so you being out with your sick kid is kind of good timing for us. For you, I mean.”
“I don’t even know what that means. Good timing?” My blood pressure is going through the roof and there’s a weird ringing in my ears. “How can my sick child be good timing for anything or anyone?”
His tone turns cajoling. “Come on, Jenny, you know it’s been real tough for us over the past six months. We had a meeting with our investors, and they recommended that we cut a few positions. We had to make some really difficult decisions. Good news is, you’ll be one of the lucky ones who gets to have a little bit of a severance package. In the end, you’ll have some more time with your family, which is always good, right?”
“Lucky? What? More time with my family? What the . . . Are you punishing me because I’m a single mother? I told you, my son is sick, Frank. This is not a joke. This is not me calling in because I’m hungover, like I’m sure George has already done this morning.”
George is single, like most of the people I work with, and a notorious party animal; he’s always the one with the lampshade on his head and his hairy butt on the photocopy machine at the Christmas party. I’ve seen it. It’s not pretty. It could explain why he’s still single. A man with that much butt hair should never advertise it so publicly.
“No, this has nothing to do with your status as a single parent or the fact that your son is sick. Jenny, I believe you. I know how it is with kids; they get sick all the time. Remember, I have two of my own.”
“Yes, Frank, and you have a wife at home who doesn’t work, lucky for you, so none of us have ever actually seen your children interfering in your ability to come to work at six in the morning and leave at ten at night.”
He loses the nicey-nice tone to his voice. “Nobody is questioning your dedication to the job, Jenny. You’re a fantastic engineer. You know your stuff. That’s why I’m not worried about you. You’ll find another job right away.”
My chest feels really tight. It’s all finally sinking in. I’m being fired. Holy shit, I’m being fired! What am I going to do? How will I pay my bills?
“How could you possibly know I’ll find another job right away?” I ask, on the verge of hysteria. “The economy isn’t that great. And you know the startups aren’t paying shit right now.” Great. He made me swear.
“So? Don’t go for a startup. Why don’t you get a job with the power company or something?”