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“Mom where are my shirts?”“Shirts? In your closet?”“No.”“Folded in a basket?”“No.”“Damn. Are you sure?”“Ya. Never mind I found them.”“Where?”“Wet and stinky in the washing machine. When did you wash them?”I try to think. I can’t really remember when I did.“Uhm. Do you have a dirty one that you can wear?”Sending my daughter to school in dirty clothes, what would my mother say? Thingis I know exactly what she’d say, she told me just last week.“You just need to do things during work breaks. You work from home, how hardcan it be to stop, take a break, switch out the laundry, do a load of dishes, sweep theoor, then go back to work?”It is a good question. I generally don’t take breaks and if I do, I’m surng thenet or checking my social media. I don’t really think to do the laundry. Hence mydaughter yelling at me about how hard done by she is because she has to wear a shirtshe already wore to school. Heaven help us, what will the kids think? What will herteachers think? Will they call social services if her shirt gets dirty enough?My husband comes down to save the day. He does this a lot. He’d grabs a coupleof clean shirts, that she doesn’t like, out of her dresser, walks into the kitchen and says,“Your choice the dirty one, one of these, a smelly one, or you could just go in yourbra. Up to you.”I choke on my coffee. ‘And if she’d chosen to go in her bra, then what?’ Shedoesn’t. She just says Daaaad in that oh you’re so embarrassing way teen girls haveand grabs a clean one out of his hand.“I’ll go run the load in the washer, pour me a cup of coffee for when I get back,” hesays and disappears into the laundry room.

My gawd, I can’t even imagine what my great-grandmother did before washing machines were invented. I turn, pour my husband a cup of coffee, add two teaspoons of sugar, and pop a bagel into the toaster for his breakfast. Was there ever a time when it was simple to be a woman? Was it easier back in the day when men were men and women were women and everyone knew their place? I doubt that made it any simpler. At least I hope it didn’t because if their lives were simpler, better, more productive than ours are today, what was the point of struggling for feminism and equality? It doesn’t always feel like it made women’s lives better. It feels like more pressure, more stress, and more responsibilities. It also feels like something is missing. Like this can’t be all there is to life? Like it’s all one big revolving wheel that goes nowhere. I’ve lled the dishwasher and am just turning it on when I feel his strong arms wrap around me from behind kissing my neck. I turn with his mug in hand.“Your coffee, kind sir.” “Sugar?”I look at him, shake my head, and turn to butter his bagel. “Gus and Rose’s place Sunday afternoon?” He asks and I nod. “Girls’ night after?” I nod again. “And I’m stuck babysitting?” “Parenting dear. It’s called parenting when the kids are yours.” “Are you sure they’re mine.”“Positive.”That’s a typical morning. Every day it’s the same. A chore I forgot to do, my husband swooping in to x things, my kids needing something or disapproving of something I did or didn’t do. Each day is pretty much the same; chores, kids, work, bed. Always the same. Perfectly the same. Perfect. The perfect life.I am forty years old. I have a wonderful, loving husband, two well-adjusted kids, a gorgeous home in a suburban neighbourhood, and a career. I have a good life and I feel like I am missing something, like I’ve forgotten something, done something wrong.

Did my mother feel this way? Did my grandmother? Did my great-grandmother? Did my grandmother ever forget to switch over the wash and have to wash the load two more times before it made it into the dryer? Did she own a dryer? Did she have to run her kids around from one activity to the other, help them with homework more advanced than when she’d gone to school? Did she feel the pressure of friends, family and society to be perfect? Always feeling judged? Did she ever look at her life and wonder if she made the right choices? Will it be different when my daughter is forty? By then everyone will probably just swallow a pill and say, “that’s dinner.” So, if women have more time because they don’t have to cook, will life be any different? Or will my daughter be looking at forty saying I think I forgot to do something. Will she have regrets? I hope not. I hope she knows what she wants and can be satised, happy, and in love. When the story was called 40 something...  Press play

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Just sign the offer.I’m waiting with my client in the other boardroom waiting for her ex husband tosign the divorce papers and settlement offer. He’s drawn this out too long and cost myclient too much money. It should have been simple, easy, 50/50 split. No such thingas an easy divorce. People think the law is black and white, but it's not, it's full of loop-holes, precedents, arguments, and procedures.I like practicing law. I enjoy putting a case together and arguing the points to getthe best deal for my client. It’s like a game of chess. You gure out what you’re clientreally wants and what they are willing to compromise, then you build a game plan.In my opinion it’s best when my client makes the rst move, that way we can ask foreverything they are legally entitled to and have more control over the chessboard atthe start. Then it’s just a matter of give and take. She’ll give you the car in exchangefor the home’s contents. He’ll give you the savings account balance and you waiverights to his pension plan. Figuring out what the other side will be willing to exchangeand making the right moves so my client will get what she really wants.This case. Not so easy.He decided to represent himself. Never a good thing. He’s cocky and believes heknows the law better than I do because he read some textbooks and got some freeadvice. He’s using every trick he can come up with to draw this out and my client isleft holding the bill. Thing is, I still have one ace up my sleeve and if we have to go tocourt, I’m using it, that is if my client doesn’t chicken out.“Maybe we should just give him what he wants. I don’t want to do this anymore. Iwant it to be over.” My client is pacing back and forth. “I mean I don’t really use thevacation house. He can have it. I can’t take the stress anymore.”“STOP.” She stops pacing and looks at me. “I know you’ll give away the farm justto have this over. You have to let me go at him with everything. We’ve been as nice aswe can. If he’s going to cost you more, you have no choice.”“I don’t know. I just can’t do this anymore. The stress is too much.”“I understand. I’ve been there. Right now, you’re only ghting for what’s fair, in factless than fair. You’ve already given him more than he’s legally entitled to. The media-

tion judge is going over it with him now. Let’s just wait and see what happens rst.” Judges don’t like it when someone wastes the courts time or plays games to punish the other party by using the system, that’s what this guy is doing. He thinks he’s pull-ing the wool over everyone’s eyes, but he’s not. I hate men like him. The door opens and the mediation judge comes in.“I am sorry, he won’t listen to reason. I’ve tried explaining the laws to him and what will happen if he goes to court. He’s determined to play lawyer, he wants his day in court.” The judge says.I smile. “No. No. No. We should just give him what he wants.”“Sherry, listen. I know this is hard.”“It’s expensive, that’s what it is. And now you want me to pay for experts.”“I know. He wants it to be expensive for you. He’s punishing you.”“I know. I just… Oh, I am tired.”“We’ve talked about the next step. Are you prepared to go ahead with it?”“Do I have any other choice?”“Not really. This is for the best. I know court is scary and that you are scared about what a judge will say. I can’t say for certain which way it will go, but if we do this, I be-lieve you will come out better off than that deal we just gave him. OK?”“Are you sure it’s going to cost that much?”“I’m afraid so, but if I’m right then you’ll have the money to cover it.”She nods and I open my briefcase to take out papers to give to the mediating judge. “I have a petition for a full psychological assessment of both parents, the children, and everyone who lives in the homes. Names are there.”“Let’s take a look.” The Judge reads the paperwork. “It all looks in order.” He signs one copy and hands it to me. He signs the second copy to present to the other party. “I’m not done.”He cocks his head at me, curiosity in his eyes. I smile at him and hand him another set of papers.

“This is a letter stating my client rescinds all offers up to this point and requestscopies of all nancial documents again.”“Again? Why do you want those?” The judge asks.“Because my ofce’s forensic accountant believes he may have some money hid-den. He’ll go looking for it now. Don’t tell him we are looking.”“They always think they can get away with it.” He says.“I know. He’s not going to be happy when he gets these. If you want I’ll get securityup here before you present him with the papers. He has a temper.”I turn to my client. She’s as white as a sheet, I’m scared she might faint. I grab herarm to guide her to the closest chair.“What’s wrong?”“I’m gonna be sick.” With that, she pukes all over my new suit.

I love my children, I do. I swear I do.It’s just, well, who are these people who live in my house? One minute they are my sweet amazing well behaved children, the next they became these things, these hormone driven crazy Teenagers who can drive a sane woman, crazy. I’m on my way to the loony bin, I tell you.Take my oldest, Alexis. She has been a struggle every day since she was conceived.I endured 26 hours of labour getting her into this world. That, on top of a difcult pregnancy, where I thought my stomach was going to come out my mouth I was retching so much. Ever have the stomach u? Well this was that for months on end. I was sure I was going to die, so did the doctors, and I ended up in the hospital with tubes feeding me the nutrients she needed to grow.The day she turned 13, she became an absolute nightmare. It’s been World War 3 in our house, as she tries to get away with everything from, wearing too much make up and too little clothes, to staying out after curfew getting drunk and high. I swear if I’d known how hard headed she was going to be, I would have left her at the hospital, or maybe just named her donkey.Next came Isabella and she was an easy pregnancy, well by then they’d invented these pills for morning sickness and I was popping them like gummy candies. They are a God send. I gained so much weight, I was going to burst. The labour was a struggle, at rst, and then the monitors started going off. I was scared she was dying. She was in distress, so I was wheeled into the O.R. for a c-section. Seriously, you should consider booking one of these the day you nd out your pregnant. It’s a much easier way to get that baby out of you and into the world.Isabella was a model child, until fourteen, when she met a boy and not just any boy. She had to fall for Johnny an eighteen-year-old rebel with long multi coloured hair, a tat-too and facial piercings, at one point I counted seven. Can you imagine having someone punch seven holes into your face? Not to mention what that kid did to his ear lobes.Well, I thought Gus was gonna shoot him the minute he saw the boy. We don’t own a gun, but Gus was ready to go out and buy one. From that moment on

she’s been a struggle with outrageous requests, which Gus and I put a stop to. No way is my daughter walking around with a nose ring, or any part of her face pierced, her body tattooed or her hair any colour, except the rich brown God intended. For mercy’s sake. Give that girl one inch and she’ll be headed to hell.Jessica was my third girl. She was always a quiet serious little girl, such an easy child. She never gave me any trouble as a toddler or preschooler. She brings home the best marks from school. She’s perfect really. Quiet, studious, smart, and keeps to herself. Always reading or doing homework in her room, I rarely ever see her.When she became a teenager, not much changed. Well, her moods became a little darker at times and she seems to mope more than I’d like, still, she is doing just ne.Then came Aiden. Finally, a boy.My pregnancy with him was so perfect. Barely any morning sickness and I had lots of energy. I love my girls, however, I wanted to give Gus a boy so badly. Right from the min-ute that boy could move, he was into everything. I was forever running after him. It was exhausting. Busy, busy, busy, that boy. He’s grown into a talented athlete, a natural Gus says. At 13 he’s already on the school Football team. There isn’t any sport he couldn’t excel at.He just turned 13 and I am beginning to see the Teenager signs already. He stopped hugging me, I was quite upset the rst time it happened, but he’s becoming a man, you know, and a mother has to expect these things. He hangs out with friends after school somewhere, but I am not sure exactly where. I nd it quite frustrating at times. I need to know where he is at all times, I tell him, of course he doesn’t listen. Such a boy, my Aiden.I enjoyed my children’s toddler years, preschool years, elementary years. They were always so sweet, so loving, and we’d have so much fun together. Now, oh my. God give me strength to make it through a day without wanting to strangle one of them, especially Alexis and Isabella.Being a mother is wonderful, I’m just wondering, is there a place I can send them for their teen years, a place where I could visit on occasion and then when they are normal again, they can come home?Just asking.

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I’m standing in line at the local food bank. You know, I used to drive by here every day and I had no idea it was here. Funny.It’s humiliating. I… Sorry… I mean… I’m grateful.I’m thankful that the kids are at Rose’s place and not here. I told her I had a doc-tor’s appointment. I couldn’t tell her I was at the welfare ofce and then coming here. I couldn’t. When I check in, the nice lady gives me a card that says three and another that says two. This means I’m able to collect food for three people and two school lunches. I should be grateful, and I am in a way, but I mean, it’s just, I’m not supposed to be here.I’m supposed to be able to take care of my kids. I’m supposed to be living in a nice house in an upscale neighbourhood. I’m supposed to be married with 2.5 kids and two cars in the driveway. That’s what adults are supposed to do, right?You know, I had that, I did. Really. Before I had to leave. I lived in a ve-bedroom house on a cul-de-sac, backing onto a quiet green belt. I lived there. I did, honest. I had four cars in the driveway. Well only one was mine, the oldest one, and the other three were my husband’s…Oh right, my ex husband, now. I have to remember that.It’s not fair. I did everything right. I did what I was supposed to do and here I am standing in line for food other people didn’t want. I guess it’s tting somehow, be-cause like this food, I am not wanted.Craig, that’s my ex, he still lives in our ve-bedroom house. He still has three cars and a good job. He hates his job, but the pay is really good, it just makes him misera-ble. It was good enough to keep us in that house. Good enough to keep the kitchen stocked with food. Good enough to keep the kids in good quality clothes and lots of shiny toys for him.It is a good paying job. He should be happy with it. He’s not. He says he will be happy now that I’m gone. He’ll be happy without me.I moved into a small two-bedroom basement suite in an old house outside town with my two kids. We t into it, somehow. I sleep on the couch because the nice lady

at the courthouse said it was better for the kids to have separate rooms ‘cause they’re a boy and girl. The courts will be happier if they have separate rooms, she told me. It’ll make it harder for Craig to take them, she said. I’m supposed to be giving them the same life they had before the separation, she said. I’m not. I can’t. I don’t make enough on welfare. Craig, when he feels like it, and I beg for it, gives me a few hun-dred dollars. I’d rather stand in this line than beg him for money.I wonder if she likes the kitchen? I miss my kitchen. The thought of her, Craig’s girlfriend, in my kitchen, in my life, it makes me sick. The pain in my throat burns it and my eyes have started watering, right here in this stupid line. I wipe the tears away quickly. I hope no one saw. I look down at my feet. I need new shoes.“Tuna or ground beef?” The lady behind the counter asks me.“Ground beef,” I answer.She gives me two frozen packages. I shufe on to get a couple carrots and some potatoes. I am grateful for the food. I am. It’s just that I’m used to roasts, steaks, and chicken. Ground beef? What am I supposed to do with that?Boxes of mac n cheese made with toxic orange food colouring. Craig would beat me for feeding the kids this. They aren’t allowed to eat this processed food. It’s food though. I can’t afford to say no to food.Rose wants me to get a lawyer and take him to court. Demand child support and my share. I can’t. She doesn’t understand. I’m not sure I understand. When Craig told me we were getting divorced, he told me no lawyers. He’d be fair, he said and we could do this without the courts, he said. We’d both be fair. This doesn’t feel fairHe told me the courts will mess everything up and cost a bunch of money, money we could use for the kids. The lawyers would take our kid’s money. He said the courts would decide where the kids lived. We could do this on our own, he said. He’d be fair, he said.Can the court make the kids live with him because he can afford them and I can’t? He says they can. The court lady said she couldn’t say what a judge would do. She said that the court would assess each situation and do what was best for the kids.

What is best for the kids?My neighbour Liz, she went to court and they took her kids away. She used to havethem almost as much as I have mine, all the time, but now she has them only half ofthe time. Liz said the judge hated her and was unfair. Would a judge hate me? Wouldhe force my kids to go live with him instead of always living with me? I can’t lose mykids. I just can’t.I put the apples and oranges they’ve given me into my bag, a weak smile on myface.“White or Brown?” Another woman asks.“Brown please.”She hands me two loaves of day old bread and I’m grateful for it. I am. Withoutthis, I would have nothing.“Are your kids allergic to peanuts?” I shake my head. “Here, you look like youcould use this.” She passes me a large jar of peanut butter and another jar of honey.I can’t even afford to buy my kids peanut butter and honey. The inside of my nose isburning. My eyes are blurring. I’m sobbing.I feel someone’s arms around me. It’s one of the ladies from behind the counter.I feel her pushing against my shoulder moving me towards the back. Hide. Hide thebroken woman who no one wants.“Here sit down. Here’s a box of tissues. Are you ok?”Her words sound absurd, but I nod. OK? Am I OK? Am I ever going to be OK again?

Oh my head. The light’s too fucking bright. Fucking sun.Hangovers are the worst.I roll over and my hands connect with a hard body. Who is this? I open my eyes. At least he’s cute. Maybe twenty-ve. Great, he’ll wake up all hot to trot and my head feels like a freight train ran over it. I’ve got to get him out my condo. I roll over and my eyes begin to focus.Where the hell am I?It looks like a dorm room. Really, a dorm room? I’m at the University? This is the only way I’d ever get on campus. Shit.I slip quietly out of bed and try to locate my clothes, which seem to be everywhere. Thank God the room is a closet and he sleeps like the dead. I can’t seem to nd my panties. Was I wearing panties? I doubt it. Hell, if I was, he gets a souvenir.Opening the door slowly, as not to wake the young buck, I slip into a hallway lled with more half naked young bucks. Damn. So what, I look young enough to be a stu-dent and they’d be lucky to get an education from a woman who knows her stuff like I do. I walk out of the building with my head held high.Shit, there are kids all over the fucking place. I need a drink. Can someone please turn off the fucking sun already?Fumbling in my purse I nd my phone and call a cab. I have got to stop drinking so much. I try to piece together last night. There was dancing and of course drinking, lots and lots of drinking.Who’d I start the night with? I check the calendar on my smart phone. Date with Joe and a number. I text.What the hell happened last night?No responds by the time the cab shows up. I feel too crappy to be angry. I call Charlie and tell her where I woke up.“What about this Joe guy? Where is he?” She asks.“I don’t know. I don’t remember much about last night.”

I like to party. I party all the time, but I never get so out of control I don’t remember what happened. I’ve woken up in men’s beds plenty of times and I always remember how I got there, eventually. Last night though is a complete blank. Damn, I don’t even know if the kid was any good. Now that pisses me off.“What’s the last thing you remember? Think Lindsay.”“Drinks with Joe at that new wine bar downtown, the one we went to last week-end.”“OK then what?”“I don’t know. He was kind of awkward, just kept staring at me while I talked. He barely said two words. Just asked me questions and stared at me like I was the best thing he’d ever seen, and damn it, I probably was.”“Where did you go after drinks? Did you eat anything?”“I don’t remember food, I remember wine, plenty of wine. The waiter kept ll-ing my glass. I think we left to go dancing, ‘cause I remember dancing. I don’t know where. That’s it. I don’t remember anything else. I sure as hell don’t remember hook-ing up with that kid.”“Write it down. Get some water into you, better yet, sports drinks, and write down what you remember. I’ll be by your place in an hour. Get cleaned up”That’s Charlie. She’s a lawyer. She’s always telling me to write it down. God like writ-ing it down is the most important thing in the world. I’m not a fucking writer.“I’m ne.”“Good, ‘cause you promised to come with me for dinner at my sister’s today.”Oh shit. I stumble into my condo, paid for by my lovely jackass of a second hus-band, and drop into bed. Finally, someone turned the fucking sun off.

House cleaned, check. The roast is in the oven, check. The potatoes on the stove, check. The cake is iced, the pudding’s chilled, check. Buns. Oh no, I forgot the buns. “Alexis… Alexis…” My voice gets louder as I scream up the stairs. “ALEXIS!”“Ya what do you want? I’m busy.” “Doing what?”“None of your business.”“It is my business. Forget it. I need you to go and pick up some dinner buns from the store. Everyone will be here soon.”“Why does everyone have to come every week?” “Seriously? You’ve asked that question every week since you were fourteen and the answer has always been the same. Now get me the buns.”“Yes Ma’am.” She salutes. I hate it when she does that. I don’t have time to discipline her, I’ll just store it for later. Now where was I? Buns, house, roast, potatoes, buns, cake, pudding, drinks. “Alexis… get ginger ale.” I yell at her back as she leaves the house. “Moooom.” Isabella comes bounding down the stairs. The girl truly does bound like a rabbit or some kind of stair-bounding kangaroo. Drives me nuts, girls are sup-posed to glide.. “Yes, Isabella?”“Isa, Mom it’s Isa.” “I named you. It’s Isabella and I’m not having this conversation again. What?”“Aiden is messing around in my room.”“Tell him to get out.” “He won’t listen.”No surprise there. That boy has selective hearing. “Tell him I have some cookies here for him.”

“Cookies? Can I have one?”“And ruin your dinner and your gure?” She glares at me. I know that was an unfair remark, still the girl would live on junk food if I let her. It’s so hard to get her to eat a healthy meal. One day she told us she was going to be a vegetarian. More like a carbotarian. The girl only ate bread and cheese, mainly in the form of cheese pizza. That didn’t last long before I sat her down with a good healthy meal of meat, potatoes, and vegetables. Wouldn’t let her get up ‘til she ate it all. A growing girl needs a healthy meal and that includes meat.. “Isa said you had cookies?” “It’s Isabella, Aiden, and yes, if you go help your father with the lawn.” “Do I have to?”“Yes you have to. Next time, don’t bug your sister. Now out you go. Your father shouldn’t have to do it all on his own anymore, you’re thirteen, plenty old enough to help out. Hurry, everyone will be here soon.”“Is Davie coming?”“Yes. I think so. He was at his father’s last week, right? So he’s here this week. Now off you go or you won’t be playing with Davie or getting any cookies.”With that he was out the door to help Gus with the yard work. Oh damn I should have given the boy a beer to take to his dad. Gus will be thirsty. Beer? Oh no. I forgot to check our supplies. I rush to the garage where there is another fridge usually lled with beer and wine.“Hey honey, how’s the dinner coming?” My husband is pulling cases of beer and bottles of wine out of the car. Thank God he remembered. “Let me help you.” He bends down, kisses me on the cheek and then hands me a couple bottles of wine. I look up at him. My man. Tall. Solid. My heart oods and I want to be in his arms. That will have to wait.

It’s Sunday and everyone will be here soon. So much to do. Always so much to do.I love Sundays. Family days. It is a lot of work having everyone over here every week to get caught up and re-connected and I love it. Since my sisters moved my parents into the city it’s the only way I get to see them. Family is so important and the kids really need to spend time with their grandpar-ents before they are gone. Not that it will be anytime soon, mind you. Got to check the oven... can’t stop even for a minute.

I have the kids all ready to go. They’ve had baths and are in clean clothes. I’ve packed a bag for the day, including healthy snacks. Craig is late. I’m sure he will be here soon to pick them up. I don’t know what I’m going to do without them. They are always with me.I told Rose I’d meet her for a girl’s night tonight, maybe I should go to her place for her family’s afternoon dinner. When she asked me to, it sounded so overwhelming. Too many people I didn’t know. I shouldn’t be so selsh. It’s painful to be around peo-ple. To be around families who are normal. To see what I so desperately want and will never get. It hurts. I know I’m being jealous and petty. I can’t help how I feel. I look at the clock on the mantle, one of the few things I took with me from the house. He’s half an hour late. The kids are restless. They are looking forward to seeing him. Where is he? How could he be late? Annoyance and anger twist around and I grab my cell and dial his number.“Hello.” Craig’s voice comes over the phone and all the anger ows out of me. I want to cry. His voice. I miss him, my heart clenches in my chest and I want to see him. “Hello. Who is this?” he says again.“Craig. It’s Sophie.”“What do you want Soph?” Annoyance in his voice cuts me.“You were supposed to be here half an hour ago to pick up the kids. They’re wait-ing.”“Shit. Soph, I’m busy. I can’t make it. Tell them I’ll see them soon.”“Busy? Craig they are waiting for you. Why didn’t you call? What are you so busy doing that you can’t see your kids?”“None of your God damn business, Soph. I’m busy, that’s all you and the kids need to know. I’ll come by and get them in a few days.”“What day? What time?”“Does it matter? I’ll pick them up when I can.”“What if we have plans? We might be out.”“No you won’t. You have no plans. You have no life, Soph. Tell the kids I’ll drop by

soon. Bye. I got to run.”I hear his girlfriend’s voice in the background, calling his name and the knife cuts. “Craig, you can’t do this.” The anger is back. “You’re their dad and they are wait-ing for you. Come pick them up now. What kind of father ditches his kids for some slut bitch? A deadbeat crappy one.” I’ve never talked to him like this, never. I can’t believe it. My blood is boiling, my breathing is fast and I want to punch him. I’m shaking I’m so angry. I never get mad. I never talk to Craig like this. Never. To do so… Ice freezes in my veins as I realize what I’ve done. I turn and see my son. His face is covered in tears. “You’re son is crying now.”“That’s not my fault you stupid cow. You’re the terrible mother yelling in front of the kids. You are the one who made them cry. It’s your fault they are upset not mine. Don’t turn this on me. It’s not my fault you are a lonely, miserable, bitter woman. That’s your problem. Not mine. Get a grip, Soph, or I’ll come take the kids. If you can’t be-have yourself in front of them, I’ll have to raise them. I won’t have you yelling in front of my kids. You’re such a useless waste of skin. Don’t fucking call me again. Get a life.”With that, he hangs up, and I’m standing in my small basement suite looking at my son, who is wiping his face and my daughter, who is beginning to sob. I kneel down. I can feel the tears. I can’t stop them. All three of us are huddled on the oor, crying. “I’m sorry. I never should have yelled. I’m such a bad mommy for doing that. I’m sorry.”“You’re a good mommy.” My daughter says and gives me a big hug. “Mom. You are a good mom. I love you.” My son hugs me. My kids think I’m a good mom. So, why do I feel like such a crappy one?

Dishes are piling up in the kitchen. The kids are already running around screaming. My sister, Rose, has told them to go upstairs to play, if they don’t start listening soon, I may lose it. My son Davie comes running around the corner chasing his cousin Aiden, who is a spoiled brat. Who am I to say anything bad about the kid, I’m just the aunt?“Davie.” I use my stern voice, he stops. “What did Aunty Rose tell you?” “To go upstairs.”“And? Why are you running around in here then? Do you boys want to do the dish-es or something?” I look squarely at Aiden when I say this. “No, Aunt Charlie.”“Then?”“Going Mom.” I turn grab a piece of cake and shove it into my mouth. It’s good. One thing I can say for my baby sister, she can bake. I look at the women in the kitchen, my sister, my mother and my friend Lindsay, who graciously agreed to come with me today. She is fun, she knows how to have a good time. Right now, she’s pour-ing me a glass of white wine with that sparkle in her eye. “What?”“Let’s go out to the garage and see what the men are getting into.” She winks. “If we do, Rose will freak out, then she’ll tell dad and he’ll lecture me the whole way back into the city about how men need their time together and I need to help my sister. My mom will tsk-tsk or yell at me or something.” I take the glass of cream coloured liquid and take a big gulp of it. “So grab a dish Lindsay, it’s time to clean up.”“You do this every week?” “Yep.”“Why?”“It’s family.” I’m sure her family goes out to restaurants for family dinners and lets others do the

cooking and cleaning. I pull her over to a pile of dishes, throw her a towel, and smile. She looks horried. I’m not sure if the girl has ever washed a dish in her life. “Lindsay, it’s wonderful to have you here today.” “Thanks. Rose? It’s Rose right?”“Yes. You’ll have to come with Charlene every Sunday. You are staying for girls’ night?” She looks right at me. “Right Charlene?” It’s not a request. You’d think she was the big sister. “Wouldn’t miss it.” Why do you think I brought Lindsay? To liven up the night, dumb ass. “Oh hey, Charlie.” “Hi Justine, how is everyone.” “Good. Really good.” I bet. This chick’s life is just like Rose’s, right out of a fucking Norman Rockwell painting. Gus’ big brother’s perfect wife, Justine is gorgeous, smart, successful, and has amazing tits. Perky, perfectly sized tits, unlike my huge watermelons. I take another large swig from my glass, empting it and hold it out to Lindsay who already has the bottle poised to ll it. Thank God for Lindsay. “So, Charlie how’s the practice?”She means my law practice. I’m a divorce lawyer and a damn good one. “Busy. I really should be working. I’m behind like always.” “Charlene, you wouldn’t work on a Sunday? The Lord’s day? It’s for family.” My sis-ter’s horried, judgemental voice stabs at me. “What’s this about working on a Sunday, Charlene?” Oh shit. My dad. Fuckin’ Rose. “No dad. I’m here, aren’t I? I just said I was behind at work is all. I didn’t mean it liter-ally.”“Good. God wouldn’t want you working.” I notice that he didn’t mention “on Sunday.” My dad thinks I shouldn’t be working. A teacher, a secretary, or retail are all acceptable part time jobs for women. What’s not

acceptable, is a career where I have to put in sixty to seventy hours a week. ‘Cause that ruined my marriage according to him and is the reason I’m still single ve years later. Not to mention what kind of mother he thinks I am. I need more wine. “What do you need, Daddy?” Rose, his perfect princess. I nish the second glass with one gulp. I’m beginning to feel light headed and drunk. I put my hand over my glass and shake my head as Lindsay holds out the bottle to ll it up again. The last thing I need is to be drunk right now. “Come on, I need a drink, and it isn’t my family.” Lindsay whispers in my ear. I nod and remove my hand. What can it hurt to have one more glass? I’ll only sip it this time. Stay Tuned...More to Come

Author: Shannon PeelPublisher: MarketAPeelCopyright 2023Only Available in DigitalISBN: 978-0-9917694-6-9How this Book WorksThis digital book is not like any book you have experienced up to this point, which is why it comes with instructions. I encourage you to be apart of the conversation and share your ideas by commenting when the opportunity arises and giving your feedback about your experiences. This is more than a book, it is a discussion.You will encounter video, audio, and visual features to expand on ideas and go deeper into the topics you are interested in. You will be able to download PDF worksheets to help you gure out how to use the ideas you discover for your life, career, and business. It is my hope you nd the solutions you are looking for to create and appealing life, career, or business. Don’t Miss Out - Get Notied about New Stories