Page 2 of Between the Lines

The tightening continues until it’s like there’s a rope around me, and I bolt upright, switching on the lamp on my nightstand.

My cat, Hamburger, curls up tightly beside me, and I begin to pet his short brown fur, while naming things I see.

“Crochet basket.” Full of unfinished projects.

“Lace curtains.” Ones that have been hanging in here since I was a child.

“Picture of Penny and me.” Her twenty-three, me sixteen, both of our hair down to our waist, hers bright blonde, mine the color of a copper sunset.

I read somewhere that when you’re anxious, it helps to name things you see aloud.

But then my eyes land on my college diploma on the wall across from my bed. A bachelor’s of communications from the University of North Carolina Wilmington.

It took five years of endless blood, sweat, and tears, but it’s mine. I did it all by myself, through my nan’s sudden death, my surprise pregnancy, Daisy’s father, Brett, leaving me . . . It might just be a piece of paper, but it’s a reminder that I can do hard things.

Even when the world is crumbling around me.

I press a clammy palm to my chest, willing my heart to stop fluttering.

Selling the house would be the easy way out. Sure, there’s a lot of equity in it, but that doesn’t really matter to me. I’ve never taken the easy road, and I won’t start now. Not when I can take the cracked, potholed one and patch it myself.

So with a pounding heart, I reach for my phone in the dim light of my bedroom and search for a local roof repair company to call in the morning. The last thing I’m going to do is let my siblings find out about this fiasco before I have a chance to solve it myself.

I love this old house, and you don’t give up on things you love.

Judging by the way my bagel popped up just as my coffee finished brewing—while my toddler miraculously sat still and let me comb her hair—someone might think I have my life together.

But they’d be sadly mistaken.

Most days I consider it a win if I remember to put underwear on and pack Daisy a snack for the sitter.

“When is the maid coming?” I joke, with Daisy on my hip. “These toys are getting out of control!” I nudge a baby doll out of the way with my toe as I meander down the hall.

There is no maid, but for the last two days I’ve refused to look up. Because that’s where the leaks are. Have my floors always been this cluttered?

“Where are they?” I mumble, peering out the front window. The roofing company sent out someone to assess the leaks, and they should’ve been here fifteen minutes ago.

Just then, a van pulls in the driveway, so I wait on the front porch to greet them. Not because I’m excited, but because I need to leave for work soon.

“Mrs. Hanson?” A man with gray hair and bushy eyebrows waddles up with a clipboard.

“That’s me.” I plaster on my responsible-adult-home-owner smile, ignoring the Mrs.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says smiling at Daisy as she drools on my hand. “I need to inspect the attic, and then go up on the roof. It shouldn’t take long.”

I open the front door, happy to get out of the stifling North Carolina heat, and welcome him inside. My long thick hair sits heavy against my neck, and I make a mental note to bring a hair clip to work.

As I lead him upstairs, kicking toys off the steps as I go, I think of my family. If my brother, or my sister’s boyfriend, Jesse, knew I let a stranger into my house to inspect the roof, they’d give me a stern talking-to. To them, I’m still a child who needs supervision, even with my twenty-third birthday mere months away.

“Be careful up there,” I call as he climbs the attic’s rickety stairs. “It’s a minefield!” I try to keep my voice light, cringing as I imagine him stepping around the mess of hoarded junk. All left by Nan.

I take the chance to change Daisy—again. It’s hotter than I expected outside.

“Are you going to be good for Miss Luanne today?” I kiss her chunky thighs, pulling a pink cotton sundress over her head, and clip a matching bow into her strawberry blonde curls—all courtesy of Aunt Penny.

Luanne was Nan’s closest friend, and she’s been watching Daisy since my daughter was twelve weeks old. It’s a godsend—knowing that just around the block from my house, Daisy is being taken care of like she’s Luanne’s own granddaughter.

With myself and Daisy ready, I stand in the hall, tapping my foot, afraid to look at the time on my phone.