Chapter 2My Daughter Called Me Her Nanny

The atmosphere in the car ride home was suffocating.

Trent caught my eye in the rearview mirror, his tone clipped and defensive. "I've told you before not to do the school run looking like that. You embarrassed her today. I need you to be more considerate of our daughter's feelings."

When I didn't respond, Mia began to fake-cry in the backseat, dramatic little sniffles filling the silence.

"Yeah, Mommy. Look at the other mommies. They're all skinny and pretty and wear nice clothes. But you? You're fat and ugly. My friends are going to laugh at me."

I turned my head slowly to look at her.

Today, my daughter was wearing a pristine blush-pink sundress. I had spent twenty minutes that morning braiding her hair into twin buns, securing them with little rhinestone crown clips. She looked like a perfect, flawless little princess.

Every single item of clothing she owned, I had painstakingly picked out. Every hairstyle, I had crafted with aching hands at dawn.

And the crisp button-down shirt Trent was currently wearing? I had washed it, treated the collar, and ironed it three times to get the creases just right.

I did the laundry. I cooked the meals. I scrubbed the floors. I served the elders, I served the child, I served the house.

I was, in every practical sense, nothing more than a nanny.

Taking my silence as submission, Trent’s voice softened slightly. "I'm sorry, Paige. I'm just trying to protect Mia's feelings. Just... dress a little better next time you go to the school."

I sat in a haze of numbness.

So a child's love for her mother was entirely conditional upon the clothes she wore.

Then what, exactly, did the last six years of my bleeding, sweating devotion count for?

When we got home, muscle memory took over. Before I could even think, I found myself in the kitchen.

Heating the oil. Tossing in the chicken wings. Flipping them. Adding the minced garlic.

The hot oil sputtered, stinging my eyes. I rubbed them with the back of my wrist and kept cooking.

After nearly an hour of standing over the stove, I carried Mia's favorite honey-garlic wings to the dining table.

By the time I finally sat down, they had already eaten most of the sides.

I picked up my fork and reached for a wing.

Smack.

Mia brought her fork down hard against the back of my hand. My wing slipped from my grip and tumbled back onto the serving platter.

"Mommy, why are you eating the chicken? If you eat it, what are Daddy and Grandma going to eat?"