Page 40 of Daddy's Ring
The customer comes back with three books—the Morrison biography plus two novels. I ring her up, wrap them carefully, send her off with a smile that feels almost genuine.
Naomi settles back into the chair, Maeve still peacefully asleep. "See? You handled that perfectly."
"You found the book."
"You knew where it was." She adjusts Maeve slightly. "Stop waiting for permission to believe you're competent."
But competence feels like a lie I'm not qualified to tell. Every decision feels like guesswork, every moment like I'm one wrong move away from everything falling apart.
"I don't know how to do this," I admit quietly. "Any of this. I'm not—I'm not built for this kind of responsibility."
"Yes, you are." Naomi's voice is firm. "You're just scared. Which is normal. Which means you're doing it right."
Naomi stays for another hour, filling the space with easy conversation and the kind of comfortable silence that doesn't require performance. She helps me reorganize the children's section—a project Nia started three weeks before she died and never finished—and shows me pictures of Jordan from his first day of high school, gangly and self-conscious in new clothes even if he tries to hide it.
When she finally leaves, Maeve is still asleep in the portable crib, tiny chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm that means she's deeply under. The afternoon stretches ahead, quiet and slow. Only two customers in the past hour, both browsing without buying.
I should be grateful for the lull. Should use the time to tackle the inventory spreadsheet or update the website or any of the hundred small tasks that keep piling up. Instead I find myself wiping down shelves that are already clean, straightening books that don't need straightening, moving through the familiar motions because staying busy means the grief can't quite catch up.
It's always there though. Just beneath the surface. Waiting for those moments when my hands are still and my mindwanders and suddenly I'm remembering Nia's laugh or the way she'd hum while organizing displays or how she'd read to Maeve in that soft voice that made every story sound like magic.
I miss her so much it feels physical. Like something vital got carved out and the wound won't close.
The thing is, I thought grief would get easier after my mom died. Thought I'd learned how to carry that weight, how to function around the absence of someone I loved. But losing Nia is different. Sharper. Maybe because I'm older now and understand exactly what I've lost. Maybe because this time I have to keep showing up, have to run her business and raise her daughter and pretend I'm capable when I feel like I'm barely holding myself together.
Or maybe it's just that loss never gets easier. You just get more practiced at faking functional.
I move to the register, pulling up the inventory system on the laptop. The spreadsheet glares back at me, columns of data that refuse to make sense no matter how many times I stare at them. Nia had a degree in business. Actually understood things like profit margins and overhead costs and quarterly projections. I have a half-finished nursing degree I never went back to and eight years of bartending experience.
Not exactly qualified for this.
My phone buzzes.
Naomi:Let me know if you need anything. Jordan says hi to Maeve.
I smile despite myself. Jordan was so sweet with her last week, patient and gentle in a way that surprised me. Fourteen-year-old boys aren't supposed to be good with babies, but he held her like she was precious, let her grab his fingers and pull his hair, made faces that actually got her to stop crying.
Naomi's raising him right. Building the kind of family I used to think was impossible—the kind where people stay and show up and don't run when things get complicated.
The kind I ran from because I was too terrified to believe it could last.
I push the thought away, focus on the spreadsheet. Nia organized everything by publisher, then by genre, then by publication date within each genre. It's logical once you understand the system, but every time I think I've got it figured out, I discover another layer of complexity.
She was so careful with all of this. So meticulous. The bookstore was her dream and she treated it like something sacred, something worth protecting and nurturing.
Now it's mine. This dream I never asked for, this responsibility I'm not qualified to handle.
But I can't let it fail. Can't let everything Nia built just collapse because I don't know what I'm doing. She trusted me with this. Trusted me with her daughter and her business and her legacy.
I can't fuck it up.
My eyes blur staring at numbers. I blink hard, refocus, force myself to actually read the categories instead of just skimming. Children's books need reordering—we're low on board books and picture books for toddlers. Young adult section is overstocked on dystopian romance but short on contemporary. Literary fiction is balanced but we need more debut authors, more diverse voices.
I make notes. Add items to the order list Nia started but never finished. Try to think about what customers have been asking for, what gaps I've noticed in the shelves.
It's tedious work. Mind-numbing. But it keeps me occupied, keeps my brain too busy to spiral into all the ways I'm inadequate for this life I've inherited.
Maeve stirs in the crib. Makes a soft sound that isn't quite crying but signals she's waking up. I glance at the clock—nearly two hours of sleep. Decent for her lately.
