Page 13 of Unleashed

That was one of my biggest fears when she was a baby. I know how unaccepting people can be, and worried endlessly she would be an outcast. Or worse, that other kids would be afraid of her.

But, unlike me, Zara is a freaking ray of sunshine. Everyone who meets her loves her. Adults, kids, everyone. And so far, I haven’t had to threaten anyone over the way they treated her. Which is good, because I absolutely would. Doesn’t matter who it is. Little old lady or a kindergartner—they would feel my wrath.

The door closes, and I dig into my work bag, pulling out the company-issued laptop and the snack I grabbed on our way out the door. Flipping my computer open, I slip the bag onto its side, using it as a desk as I log into McKinley Security System’s private server. In addition to a private server, the computer also has its own internet service and some sort of fantastically secure firewalls or something. I didn’t really pay attention to Titus’s explanation when he handed it over. All I know is I don’t have to worry about someone hacking into it, so I can stay on top of anything I don’t need to be in the office for during dance class, cheerleading, and Girl Scouts.

I spend the next hour updating all of Brooke’s spreadsheets, making sure everything is accurate and easy to navigate, before closing up shop for the night just as my sister emerges. The braids I painstakingly worked into her hair are loose and scraggly, she’s only wearing one of her slippers, and I think there’s a snag in her tights. But her cheeks are pink and there’s a wide smile on her face.

At the end of the day, that’s all that really matters. It’s why I spend my evenings as Zara’s personal chauffeur and a huge chunk of my income goes to her activities. I want her to have all the things I never did. I want her to know she is my priority and her happiness matters to me. I want her to feel safe and loved and appreciated.

One of her little friends rolls her over to where I sit, giving her a squeeze goodbye before leaving with her mother while I repack my bag and pull a hoodie over my sister’s head. Once she’s cozy, I pass Zara her travel cup filled with ice water and we roll out into the chilly evening air.

On the drive home, we make a pit stop at her favorite fast food restaurant for soft serve cones.

Has she had dinner yet? Nope.

Do I care if she has dessert first? Also no. All I care about is that she always has enough to fill her stomach. I know what it’s like to be hungry, and it is yet another thing I will make damn sure Zara never experiences.

She happily plows through her treat, polishing it off just as we pull into our tiny driveway. Then I’m unloading her again, even more grateful I was able to qualify for the loan to buy this van. Because I’m fucking exhausted, and reassembling her chair before scooping her out of the backseat at this point in the day was zero fun. Even less fun than carrying her up the stairs and into our trailer used to be.

As I push Zara up the shiny new ramp I installed and into our home, I send Brooke a silent thank you for the sign-on bonus I got when she hired me.

I whip up a super simple dinner, plopping it down on our tiny table before digging in. As a kid, I had to eat whatever I could get my hands on. It didn’t matter if I didn’t like the taste or had to pick off mold. It was that or starvation.

And starvation sucks.

But Zara has never met a hungry day—and never will if I have anything to say about it.

Which is exactly why she turns her nose up at the pile of garlic roasted broccoli next to the carbonara she will inhale. “I don’t like broccoli.”

I shove in a bite of the slightly browned vegetable, forcing my expression to stay neutral as I chew through it. “Broccoli doesn’t like you either, but you still have to eat it.”

I could be talking to either of us, honestly, because veggies aren’t my favorite.

My sister snorts. “Broccoli isn’t a person.”

“That’s why it’s okay to eat it.” I shove in another mouthful of stems and florets before using the tines of my fork to point at hers. “Otherwise you’d be a cannibal.”

Zara cackles. “I’m not a cannibal.”

Do most five-year-olds know what a cannibal is? Probably not. Yet another thing that’s not going to earn me any parent of the year awards. But the conversation amuses her enough she takes a couple bites of the vegetable.

So I’m going to call it a win.

Dinner finished, we head for the bathroom. Unlike the ramp and my new van, the tiny space is not built for people who need a little more working room, so getting her into the tub and scrubbed down takes a little bit of maneuvering. Thanks to years of intense physical therapy, Zara can walk short distances on her own, but is not super coordinated or fast, and letting her attempt it across the linoleum with slippery feet would be hazardous. So, when she’s finished, I bundle her up in a towel and carry her into her bedroom. She hates being hauled around like this, but until I can come up with a better option, safety will always come first.

The trailer has two bedrooms, and hers is the bigger of the options. Mostly because she has more stuff than I do. Between her clothes, toys, and electronics, Zara takes up an immense amount of space.

Exactly how I want it to be.

After getting her toweled off and dressed in her favorite pair of pajamas, I blow her hair dry, making sure it’s smooth and tangle free, before tucking her into bed. One of the perks of keeping her so busy is that she generally crashes hard the second her head hits the pillow, so within a couple minutes, the rest of the night belongs to me.

I take a quick shower of my own before bundling up in sweatpants, and an oversized T-shirt, and my favorite plush robe. Slapping a moisturizing mask on my face, I flop onto the sofa and switch on the television. Time to attempt to stay up-to-date on my favorite show.

I’m barely five minutes in before there’s a quiet knock at the door.

Because of course there is. Hopefully it’s the guy who was here Saturday looking for my mom. I have a fair amount of feminine rage I need to expend, and man it would feel good to wail on one of the people who refuse to let me fully move past the shittiness of my childhood.

I answer the door with a baseball bat and a smile, all my excitement evaporating when I see who is actually on my porch.