“She’s very lucky to have you,” I said.
“Do you think she’ll like the card I drew for her?”
“I think she’ll love it, baby.”
“She’s very lucky to have you.”
But the truth was, I’d already noticed things.
Small things. The kind of things a mother catalogs and tries to explain away.
For instance, at my ex-husband’s birthday dinner, Hazel had tugged on Vanessa’s sleeve to join the conversation. But Vanessa had turned to the woman on her other side without so much as a glance.
I’d already noticed things.
At the bakery, when the owner beamed and asked, “Is this your future stepdaughter?” Hazel told me that Vanessa had corrected her with a clipped, polished smile.
“No, she’s my boyfriend’s daughter.”
I told myself she was still adjusting. New relationships were awkward. Blending families took time.
I said these things to myself so often that I almost believed them.
