Page 5 of Never After Us
Mila’s stare could peel paint off walls.“Mom.We live out of suitcases.”
“It’s called beingglobal citizens,” I counter as we shuffle forward in the aisle.“Some families own houses.We own stories.”
She snorts.Loudly.“We own frequent-flier miles.”
“We do.And one day we’ll use them for an extraordinary adventure.”
She tilts her head, assessing me like I’m a questionable piece of fruit at the grocery store.“Our life is an adventure.Grandma says we should settle down so I can do what normal children do.”
I try not to groan, but internally I am screaming into a pillow.
What the fuck, Mother?
“And when did she say that?”I ask, bracing myself.
“Every time she visits.Usually right after, ‘Let’s put Mila to bed,’ and right before her lecture on how you make questionable choices that affect my growth.”Mila even adjusts her posture to imitate my mother’s when she says things in that tone—an uncanny, mildly horrifying impression.
Exactly why my child needs distance from that woman.
We leave the plane, push through the airport, and follow the current of passengers until we step out beneath the arrivals sign.Baggage claim hums around us—metal wheels clattering, travelers calling out to one another, suitcases slapping onto the conveyor belt.
And then I spot him.
A man in a dark suit stands just beyond the gate holding a sign with my name, MARA CAVANAGH, printed in bold, professional letters.He looks polished, composed, and entirely too confident for someone about to deal with the hot mess that is me.
He steps forward with a polite nod.“Ms.Cavanagh?I’m Daniel.Mr.Hanley’s assistant.The firm sent me to bring you to your aunt’s residence.”
“Oh.”I blink, pretending I expected this.I did not.“Right.Of course.Thank you.”
He helps us gather our luggage.Even grabs Mila’s backpack, my camera bag, the suitcase that keeps trying to topple over like it’s protesting my life choices—and leads us through sliding doors into Seattle’s crisp spring air.
Waiting at the curb is a sleek black town car, a vehicle so polished it looks like it should be chauffeuring spies instead of exhausted mothers hauling along inquisitive children.
Mila’s eyebrows shoot up so high they nearly leave her face.“Oooh.Fancy.”
“Temporarily fancy,” I correct, lifting a finger to emphasize temporary, because God forbid my child thinks I’ve suddenly become a person who can afford things with wheels this polished.“We’re just here to keep Aunt Lina’s belongings from becoming state property.Then we’ll leave.It’ll be quick.”
Mila climbs into the backseat beside me, buckling her seatbelt with a weary sigh—one so dramatic it could earn her a standing ovation.
“You always say it’ll be quick,” she announces, settling in with the confidence of someone preparing to present evidence.“Then three months pass, and we’re still there.”
“That’s so not true.”
She turns her head slowly, giving me a look fit for an investigative journalist.“Portugal.”
“That was only two months.”Itsklike I’ve won something.“Check the math, young lady.”
Her expression suggests someone needs to check something, and it’s not her math.This girl is about to sass me because that’s the default setting she inherited from me.
“Fine.Barcelona?”
“That was different,” I argue.“We had—like—three requests.We couldn’t just leave.”
She folds her arms like a miniature executive preparing to fire me.“It’s always different.”
I stop arguing—not because she’s right (she is), but because the driver might call Child Services if this conversation continues.I do not have the bandwidth to explain our particular brand of functional.We are functional ...mostly.
I tug at a loose thread on my sweater, pretending that’s what needs my attention.
