Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 76022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
“All that,” Deacon said, nodding. “But also some art supplies. Good ones.”
“Don’t know much about good supplies, but I’m sure we can find some nearby. Where are you now? Halfway house?”
“Yeah. Couple towns over. Probably not even supposed to be here.”
“Which P.O. did you get?”
“Some Nancy chick.”
“Shit.”
“She no good?”
“She’s gonna be a thorn in your ass every day until you’re free of her. Got a friend who can tell you how to navigate her. ‘Cause she will be looking for you to fuck up. Might be able to get you in an apartment in town, though. Old place he had.”
“Be glad to be out of the halfway house. Don’t wanna be around a bunch of guys with no privacy.”
“I get that. I’ll get you in touch with the woman who owns the apartment. But you’re gonna need to convince Nancy.”
He nodded at that, then watched Este move past the door.
“You love her, huh?”
“More than I thought I was capable.”
“And the kids?”
“Yeah, we’re loving being parents. Want a bunch more.”
“She got a sister?”
“Only child. Don’t worry. After we eat and find you your art supplies, the guys and I will drag you to the bar and get you laid.”
“What guys?”
“Right. Yeah. About that. I didn’t exactly leave the criminal world behind me,” I admitted. “When I got out, I was offered an opportunity to join the local MC.”
“Bikers?”
“Bikers.”
“Weekend warriors or…”
“Or.”
“Huh.”
“Been one of the best decisions of my life,” I admitted.
“Yeah? They taking applications?”
“Maybe. But first, can you get that shoe out of my kid’s mouth?”
So, yeah, that was how Deacon became a part of the family too.
Este - 15 years
“Breathe,” Saul said, pressing a hand into my lower back as I just barely resisted the urge to leap forward and yank my baby away from the saw. “He knows what he’s doing.”
“This was a child I once saw using a butter knife to cut through a two-by-four.”
“When he was five.”
“He’s barely older than that now.”
“He’s a teenager,” he reminded me.
“Don’t say that. He’s a little boy.”
“He’s got facial hair. And he stinks. All the time. And he now calls us ‘dude’ instead of Ma or Papá.”
“Ugh. Why does he smell so bad? Did you smell that bad? Did all the boys I went to school with smell so bad, but I was too overcome with my own hormones to notice?”
“Think they all go through a stink phase.”
“Not me,” our daughter, a very girly eleven-year-old, declared with a lift of her chin. “I took two showers yesterday.”
“Yeah, about that,” I said, running a hand down her hair. “Our water bill is going to be insane.”
“It’s worth it,” she declared, walking away. “You’re holding the wood wrong,” she told her older brother before sauntering off.
He was, too.
But instead of being pissed at his little sister for being right, he just sighed and readjusted his hold.
“Whose genius idea was it to let him build his own desk?” I asked.
“Yours,” Saul reminded me.
“Yeah, well, what the heck are you doing listening to me?” I asked, my whole body tensing as our son finally made his cut.
“See? All good. Was your grandfather this much of a worrier when he was teaching you?”
“He was a stickler about my hair being up and my clothes not being too loose. Other than that, though, no. He once said that if I cut off my finger, he’d just stick it on ice until the doctors could reattach it.”
“I’m not gonna cut off my finger, Ma,” our son said, rolling his eyes a bit as he took his desk top off the table. “I’m going to sand this outside.”
We both turned, watching him head up the steps his sister had just ascended, leaving the both of us alone in the workshop slash craft room.
Not all our kids were into woodworking. But they all had their own little hobbies that required storage space and areas to work on them without worrying about making a mess.
The basement that had once served as my prison was now a space we all enjoyed as a family.
“I know. I know,” I said when Saul glanced over at me. “I’m being a helicopter.”
“Nah. You did good. I saw you pull yourself back three times.”
We tried, as a whole, to allow our kids to explore and make mistakes, not always try to correct them. It was how I’d been raised, and it never occurred to me how valuable that had been. Or how difficult it would be to do with my own children. I was in a constant battle with myself to just step back and observe, waiting to offer them guidance only if they asked for it.
Mindfulness was a constant practice. Luckily, I had Saul to keep reminding me to stay grounded and present.
“They don’t make it easy, do they?”
“No. But that’s what makes it all worth it. I gotta go pick up the little two from karate. You wanna take a walk?”