Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 90778 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90778 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
I draw in a deep breath, straighten my posture and wipe away the single tear that managed to escape. My face smooths into something bright, something cheerful, though it feels like I’m wearing a mask made of fragile glass. My parents can’t see me breaking—they need to believe I’m happy, that this marriage, strange as it is, hasn’t broken me.
“Mrs. Jackson?” the driver calls again.
“Yes,” I nod, forcing a smile. “Thank you.”
With steady hands, I push the car door open and step out, letting the cool air wash over me. The sight of my parents’ home brings a fleeting sense of comfort. I helped them buy this house with my wages. I clutch onto the feeling with everything I have. All that matters is that I make them happy and show them I’m okay—even if I’m not.
Inside, the smell of something delicious wafts through the air—a comforting mix of meat, onions, and herbs. My mom is in the kitchen, her apron dusted with flour, humming as she stirs a pot on the stove. Her face lights up when she sees me.
“There’s my girl!” she says, wiping her hands on a dish towel and pulling me into a hug. Her embrace is warm and smells faintly of the lavender talcum powder she always uses. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too, Mom,” I say, squeezing her tightly. “What’s cooking? Smells amazing.”
“Just meatloaf, soup, and your favorite cookies,” she replies, her eyes twinkling. “Thought you could use a good home-cooked meal.”
I laugh softly, following her into the kitchen and setting my bag on the counter. “Thank you, I do.”
“Now, tell me everything. How’s the house? And how does it feel to have staff serving you?”
I smile and am about to lie through my teeth when the sound of my father shifting in his recliner catches my attention.
“Hang on a sec, Mom,” I say softly and make my way over to him. He’s in his usual spot, his chair tilted back for a nap, but his face looks pale, drawn, even as he sits up at my approach and smiles warmly.
“Hi, Dad,” I say gently, bending down to wrap my arms around him. He pulls me into a bear hug, but his embrace is weaker than I remember.
“Ah! you’re home,” he says, his voice raspy with sleep. “How are you doing, kiddo? Everything okay?”
I nod, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “I’m fine, Dad.” The words feel heavy, but I force them out with a smile. “You get some rest. Mom and I will catch up in the kitchen and we’ll have lunch together, okay?”
He nods, though his eyes linger on me with the kind of worry only a parent can carry. I give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before heading back to my mother, who’s already bustling around the stove.
As soon as I rejoin her, she’s ready, questions spilling out like steam from a pot.
“So,” she begins, her voice light but probing, as she glances at me out of the corner of her eye. “How’s the marriage? What about you and Earl? Is he treating you well? Do you … see him much?”
The rhythm of her chopping slows slightly, a subtle cue that she’s paying close attention to. With a soft laugh, I pull out a chair and collapse into it. I lean my elbows on the kitchen table. “You can stop worrying, Mom, I’m fine. Really. The house is beautiful—absolutely gorgeous. It’s lovely having staff. And Earl and I are slowly working our issues out.” I force my tone to sound lighter. “And once Dad is well, you’ll both have to come up to the house. Maybe in summer. It’s beautiful. A dream, really. There’s a lake too and I know Dad will love it.”
Mom sets down the spoon and leans against the counter, tilting her head with a knowing look. “And what about Mrs. Belafonte’s staff? How are they treating you? Are they polite to you?”
I chuckle softly and tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Oh, Mom, they’re wonderful. Honestly, I couldn’t have asked for better people. They’re so kind and helpful. They … they actually make me feel at home.”
Her eyebrows lift with surprise. “That’s good to hear. I’ve heard stories about Mrs. Belafonte and how she used to treat her staff, so I thought they might be a bit difficult or standoffish with you.”
I shake my head, smiling. “Not at all. They’ve been nothing but welcoming. I guess they much prefer me to their old mistress. Apparently, she was a real tyrant.”
“Yes, I heard that too,” my mom confirms. “Apparently, she used to make their lives miserable.”
“Well, I certainly don’t. Obviously, they do their jobs, but I treat them with respect. I didn’t grow up rich, so I think they see me as no different than them.”