Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 33290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
“I knocked it over,” he said, his bottom lip trembling. “I was trying to move this box so I could set up my cars, and I bumped into it. I’m sorry!”
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I said automatically, crouching down to help him. “Accidents happen.”
“But I broke it. Dad’s gonna be mad.”
“No one’s mad,” Colby said gently, appearing beside us. “It’s just a lamp, buddy. We can fix it.”
Luca looked between us anxiously. “Are you sure?”
“Very sure,” I confirmed, reaching out to smooth his hair. “These things happen when we’re moving boxes around. No big deal.”
His face brightened immediately. Six-year-olds were remarkably resilient when they knew they weren’t in trouble. “Can I help fix it?”
“Absolutely,” Colby said. “But first, why don’t you tell Miss G about the new cars you added to your collection? I bet she’d like to see them.”
As Luca launched into an enthusiastic explanation of the new toy cars and trucks, carefully arranging them on the coffee table for my inspection, I felt something fundamental shift inside my chest. This wasn’t pretend anymore. This wasn’t about helping Colby or stopping Lyla or maintaining a facade.
This was about love. Pure, unconditional, terrifying love for a child who deserved stability and a father who would do anything to protect him.
“This one’s my favorite. Mr. Henderson gave it to me the other day,” Luca said, holding up a red fire truck. “It has a real ladder that goes up and down. Want to see?”
“I’d love to see,” I said, settling cross-legged on the floor beside him.
For the next hour, we played with cars and built elaborate roads out of couch cushions. Luca chattered about school and his friends and his upcoming soccer game, completely at ease with the changes in his world. To him, this was simple: Miss G was moving in, which meant more people to play with and help with homework.
When it was time for dinner, we ordered pizza and ate it cross-legged on the living room floor while Luca demonstrated his favorite video games. He was patient with my fumbling attempts at the controller, cheering when I managed to make my character jump successfully and offering gentle corrections when I forgot which button did what.
Colby watched us with that same unreadable expression, occasionally joining the conversation but mostly content to observe. I wondered what he was thinking, whether he regretted asking me to do this, whether seeing us together felt as natural to him as it did to me.
By eight o’clock, Luca was yawning despite his protests that he wasn’t tired. Colby carried him upstairs for his bath while I cleaned up the pizza boxes and tried to process everything that had happened in one day. This morning I’d been Gianna Stapleton, single florist with a tidy apartment and a carefully ordered life. Tonight, I was Mrs. Gianna Marshall, stepmother to a six-year-old who’d claimed my heart completely.
“He wants you to read to him,” Colby said when he came back downstairs. “If you’re up for it.”
“Of course.”
I found Luca in his pajamas, teeth brushed, and hair still damp from his bath. His room blended little boy chaos with parental organization with toys scattered across the floor, but clothes folded neatly on his dresser, superhero posters on the walls but books lined up carefully on his bookshelf.
“Which one tonight?” I asked, settling beside him on his bed.
Luca handed me a worn copy of a book about a bear who went on adventures with his forest friends. I’d read it to him dozens of times before during sleepovers and sick days, but tonight felt different. Tonight, I was reading as part of his family, in the house where we all lived together, as part of the bedtime routine that would be mine to share from now on.
“Miss G?” His voice was sleepy, content. “Can I call you mom?”
My heart seized as had my breath. There’d been a handful of times over the years when he’d slipped and called me mom. I brushed it off, never making a big deal about it.
This was different.
I wanted to tell him no because there would be a day in the near future when I wouldn’t be his mom, but he would never understand.
He shouldn’t have to understand.
What a mistake this was.
Instead, I nodded. Unable to use my voice out of fear. Out of weakness.
“Mom,” he said trying it out. I looked at him, my eyes watered from love and sadness. I loved this little boy more than anything. “Hmm?”
“I’m glad you’re living here now. It feels more like I have a real family now.”
My throat tightened. “What makes it feel like a real family?”
He considered this seriously, snuggling deeper into his blankets. “Well, you and Dad both take care of me. And you make breakfast sometimes, and you know how I like my sandwiches cut. And you laugh at my jokes even when they’re not very funny.”