“SOPHIA! HURRY UP, HONEY. WE need to head out to your grandmother’s now, or we won’t hear the end of it!” I shout up the stairs from where I’ve been waiting in my foyer for over five minutes while my daughter does what she calls “primping.”
“Just one more minute, Mummy Gumdrops!” she bellows from her bedroom.
I shake my head with a smile. All of a sudden, she’s seven years old going on thirteen. When did that happen? She’s always enjoyed dressing up and playing make-believe. Primping is completely new, though, along with a few other things I’ve noticed about her since I divorced Callum. Like how she doesn’t want me to read to her at bedtime anymore. Or how she refuses to eat Greek yogurt and is too cool to give me a kiss when I drop her off at school.
This is exactly what I was afraid of when I agreed to shared custody. I can only control her and see what she’s doing fifty percent of the time. I’m not there every day to see those moments she gets away without hugging her dad goodbye for school. Or when she looks in the mirror and asks why her belly is bigger than her friend Ainsley’s. I’m not there to hear Callum tell her not to have any more sweets because those are what make her tummy big.
Being a divorced mother means I have lost some of my original Sopapilla. Now she’s morphing into this new hybrid that I have to reacquaint myself with every other week. I know this is a lifestyle that many families endure and they survive. Some are even better for it. Deep down, I also know that staying with Callum wouldn’t have been the example of family I want to impart on Sophia.
I think the divorce was hard for me to accept because I wasn’t ready for it. It came sooner than I anticipated. I still had cancer tunnel vision. I was still picturing my sweet Sopapilla looking so tiny in those big hospital beds, so I was prepared to live the way we were living until I knew Sophia was truly healed and out of the scary cancer woods. I would have walked through fire to heal her, so staying married to Callum seemed a lot less painful in comparison.
But this life is my new normal. We are co-parenting and I have to accept it. I also have to accept the fact that if I’m late dropping Sophia off at Margaret’s house, she will make damn sure I know about it. And I’m not sure I have the mental fortitude to bite my tongue with her anymore.
I’m blaming that part entirely on Gareth. Prior to meeting him and engaging in our crazy friends with benefits situation last week, I would have bitten my tongue when Margaret scolded me in front of my daughter. I would have held my breath when she commented about my trousers being much too tight, or my hair being far too long, or my makeup being too pale for my complexion.
I’m not one who enjoys conflict. In fact, most times, I shut down and walk away. When I became a mother, I really had to push myself to not give Sophia whatever she wanted when she cried, especially because she was a sick toddler. Keeping the peace has always felt like the easier road to travel. Who wants the anxiety of an argument with someone?
But after spending several days with Gareth last week and commanding control over our sex life, I have a newfound respect for people who assert themselves in situations. It’s been empowering to have such a strong, virile, beast of a man put so much faith in me. He puts my needs and my desires first all the time. And the way his attention stays so laser focused on me when I show up at his house…I can’t help but rise to the occasion. He’s pushing me to be this way because it’s a turn-on for him, too!
What life is this?
This kind of devotion from a powerful man is something all women should experience at least once in their lives. It would give them the strength to shoot for whatever goals they want to accomplish. Anything is possible when you can take control of your sex life.
Sophia flounces down the stairs, snapping me out of my musings of Gareth. My eyes fly wide and I bite back a laugh as I take in my daughter’s appearance.
She looks like Courtney Love after a bender in London. For bottoms, she’s wearing metallic silver leggings with a pair of purple Wellies. For a top, I think I see a pink tank top with silver studs around the neckline, but it’s difficult to get a good look at beneath her long, white faux fur coat. Her normally perfect skin has been massacred with eyeliner, eyeshadow, and…Is that glitter lotion? Her big brown eyes are lost in a sea of makeup in all the wrong places.
Trying not to laugh, I ask, “Sophia, what have you done?”
Her eyes fly wide. “I’ve dressed properly for Grandmama.”
My brows pinch. “What do you mean?”
“Grandmama said I should dress my best when I come to her house,” she replies in her British accent.
My nails dig harshly into my palms. “She did, did she?”
Sophia looks down at her Wellies. “I’m not sure she’ll like my boots, but those puddles simply must be jumped in. The last time when I jumped in my trainers, Daddy had to buy me new ones.”
Irritation presses sharply into my temples like a blunt force trauma. This is a prime example of having no control over what’s being said to Sophia and how it’s being interpreted by her. When Margaret made comments like this to Sophia in the past, I served as a buffer to explain it away.
“Grandmama didn’t mean you have to play with the neighbour boy who threw mud on you. She meant that the families are old friends, so we need to be polite.”
I stride over to where Sophia is standing on the steps and grab her cute little fingers in mine. “Sophia, while I love, love, love this look you have going on here and think it is one hundred percent red carpet-worthy, I think we need to go upstairs and tone it down a little bit.”
She looks back at me in horror. “But Grandmama said!”
My eyes fly wide. “I know, baby! I know. But you can’t wear white fur to the country!” I laugh heartily and swat her on the shoulder. “The polar bears will think you belong to them.”
Sophia’s furry brows crumple. “Mum, there are no polar bears out at Grandmama’s.”
My jaw drops. “There aren’t?”
She rolls her eyes. “No. You should be embarrassed that you thought that, Mum.”
I bark out a laugh but sober immediately. “I’m humiliated.”
She clutches my cheeks in her hands. “No, but really, Mum. Don’t ever tell anyone you said that. It’s not very bright.”
This elicits a genuine smile. Through a few more giggles, I convince Sophia to let me style her like one of my clients. But being the negotiator she is, I have to promise to let her style me sometime in the near future. It’s a price I’m very willing to pay.
The Lake District is a good thirty minute drive from my house. Normally, I dread the drive. It’s like driving down death row and preparing to give away my child to some horrid criminal.
Today it’s not as hard, though. The past week with Sophia was so different than it’s been in months. Ever since the divorce, I’ve been constantly searching for fun things to do with Sophia so she will love me more than Callum. I was desperate to make memories and ease the burden and pain of having a broken family.
But last week wasn’t a constant, “What are we going to do next,” state. There was a sense of living in the moment and seeing it for its simple beauty. Watching Sophia play with her dolls on her bedroom floor was suddenly so much more emotionally rewarding than all the excursions I’ve taken her on around Manchester this past year. Even the makeover I gave her just moments ago involved more giggles than a full day at some museum. Maybe having a bit of balance in my life isn’t so bad after all.
I drive up the long gravel lane, passing through the perfectly manicured landscaping, or gardens as the British call them. Shrubs trimmed perfectly, fall flowers in bloom, orange leaves falling all around us. Honestly, it is dreamy. Margaret Coleridge’s estate is quite similar to the one where Callum resides but older. It’s also larger in the sense that it occupies two acres and is elevated so when you drive up to it, you feel a bit like you’re driving to a castle.
I’m grateful for the estate in a lot of ways because Sophia has the best experiences out here. She really embraces nature. She loves running in the woods, jumping in the puddles, and going out on the sailboat whenever Callum agrees to take her. They are the kind of memories I would have killed for as a child.
When we pull around the large fountain in the middle of the driveway, Callum and Margaret walk out, clearly watching for our arrival. Hot on their heels is the oh-so stunning, blonde, and ridiculously made-up Lady Godiva.
I’ve been noticing her presence at more and more of my drop-offs with Sophia. Callum formally introduced me to Callie and told me they are quite serious. She looks like everything Margaret Coleridge hates. Regardless, here Callie stands, clasping Callum’s hand and waving to Sophia like she’s some high school camp counsellor.
Sophia squeals from the backseat when she sees Margaret’s bloodhound, Rex, trotting up to her car door. “Stop the car, Mum! Rexy neeeeeeds meee!” she sings and shakes her Welly boots anxiously.
“I’m stopping, I’m stopping,” I say with a smile.
As soon as the vehicle stops, she unbuckles herself and opens the door, nearly falling on top of Rex in her excitement. The old hound sniffs and licks her face like it’s been years since he’s seen her instead of seven days. Sophia giggles happily and begins running toward the grass with him. He bounces alongside her, nipping at the bottom of her purple coat—a much more subdued option overtop of a practical pair of jeans and a long sleeve black shirt. Paired with her Wellies, I think Sophia is dressed perfectly for the country.
I turn my attention to Margaret, Callum, and Callie, who now stand beside me.
“You’re quite late,” Margaret states, tossing the tail of her beige cloak over her shoulder. “We thought you might have died. Would have been nice if you’d phoned.”
My face crumples. “It would have been difficult to call if I was dead.”
Callum shoots his steely blue eyes at me in silent warning. “Maybe you can start ringing me when you’re on your way so Mother doesn’t have to worry unnecessarily.”
I roll my eyes. “Sure, Cal. I’d love to call.”
“This is a court ordered agreement,” Margaret states, the wrinkles around her eyes stacking on top of each other as she narrows them at me. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you.”
“No, I’m fully aware,” I reply with a small huff and glance annoyingly at Callie, whose big doe eyes are blinking like she doesn’t speak our language. “And we were late because Sophia said you weren’t happy with her appearance last time she visited.”
Margaret tightens her shawl and keeps her expression flat. “She wears too much pink. It’s not proper.”
“She’s seven. How is pink not proper for a seven-year-old?”
“She can wear pink when she’s with you. When she comes to the country, she should be dressed more practically.”
“Well, she doesn’t understand what you mean by proper. In the future, maybe you can bring it to me if you’re not happy with something and not expect a seven-year-old to understand what proper attire is for the country. Styling is kind of what I do for a living, you know.”
Margaret’s lips thin as she drags her gaze down my body. I’m wearing a simple pair of jeans, boots, and a graphic T-shirt that says, “I’m a Mom, but a Cool Mom.” I tighten my trench coat around me so she can’t read the fine print below that says, “Now Pass the Wine.”
“She looks fine today, so dress her more like that in the future,” Callum states, smoothing a strip of his hair that breaks loose from the gel in the wind. “We’ll see you next week.”
I refrain from rolling my eyes at his dismissal. “Before I go, I wanted to talk to you about Thursday.”
Callum frowns. “This Thursday? It’s my week, Sloan.”
Licking my lips, I do my best to keep my cool. “I understand, but this Thursday is Thanksgiving. I figured since you guys don’t celebrate the holiday, maybe I can have Sophia over for dinner. Just for a couple of hours, then I’ll bring her right back.”
Callum looks at me like I’m speaking another language, but it’s Callie’s voice that replies, “But we’re British.”
I cut my eyes at her, blinking slowly. “I’m aware.”
“We don’t celebrate Thanksgiving.” She looks to Callum for help, and he simply nods his head in agreement.
I can hardly believe the exchange. Exhaling heavily, I glance over at my ex-husband. “Callum, surely you didn’t forget that I’m American.”
“No,” he scoffs. “You make that really difficult.”
“Well, I would really love to celebrate Thanksgiving with Sophia. It’s very big in America and it’s one of my favourite holidays. I’m sorry I didn’t think to include it in our custody agreement—”
Margaret cuts me off mid-sentence. “We’ll discuss it and let you know.”
My gaze turns to her. She looks like an angry headmistress who’s trying to determine what sort of corporal punishment to inflict on me. She can’t possibly be inserting herself into this decision. It’s not even a day she would see Sophia anyway.
Callum looks timidly over at his mother, clearly unsure where her mind is at as well. I didn’t think this would be an issue. I’m not asking for a whole day. Just a couple of hours. Surely they can’t say no.
Margaret looks at Cal and gives him a subtle shake of the head. He nods back in response. Cal is so weak. So submissive. I could literally tie up Gareth with rope and he would never look a fraction as spineless as Callum Coleridge does underneath the withering stare of his mother.
My rage is dampened when Sophia pummels into my legs. “Mum, when can we get a dog at your house?”
My lips purse together as I try to ignore the fact that she doesn’t call it “our house.” I hate that she looks at my home as a place she visits and not a place that’s hers.
I squat down to eye level. “Maybe someday, Soap, but I think we have too much going on right now.”
She sighs dramatically. “We don’t have anything going on. I don’t even play football like all the other girls.”
I pin her with a warning look. “Sophia. Mommy is the boss, so be a good girl and maybe we’ll discuss it again next year.”
She wraps her arms around my neck and squeezes, her voice muffled in my shoulder as she says, “Fine…It’s probably good. Rex would be sad if I had another friend.”
“That’s a good girl,” I reply, beaming with pride. I press my lips to her hair. “I have to be going now, baby. You be good for your Grandma and Daddy.”
She pulls back to look at me, keeping her cosy arms wrapped tightly around my neck. “I’m going to miss you so much.”
Heart crushing aches. Knee-trembling pain. Burning desolation all through my body. “I’m going to miss you, too. But I’ll see you in—”
“Seven days!” she sings, smiling brightly.
Hopefully sooner, I think to myself. “Give me a kiss.”
She plops a wet one right on my lips and squeezes me one last time. As I drive away, I try really hard to remember what it was that made me agree to marry Cal. Then I get a glimpse of Sophia waving goodbye to me in the rearview mirror and it all comes back to me.