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I am. I have Sundays and every other Monday off.

I know what Zara does for work, as Raine has casually slipped some pieces of information into our conversations.

That explains the impromptu visit. Maybe I’ll return the favor one day. You’re a hairdresser, right?

So my daughter does talk about me.

At this, I smile, because Raine doesn’t just simply talk about her mother, she brags about her.

That she does.

She’s kind of obsessed with you.

*smiley face emoji* It’s a good thing I’m obsessed with her too.

My chest squeezes at their blatant familial affection for one another, the type of mother-daughter relationship I’ll never have. It’s beautiful to witness, because they don’t even need to be in the same room for me to know just how much they love and sacrifice for one another.

When I don’t text back immediately, Zara fills the proverbial silence.

You should visit me at work.

I could do your hair for you.

My hand reaches for my hair, the thought of doing anything different with it never occurring to me. I usually cut and color it myself when it needs it, because it’s easier and cheaper and I’ve never truly cared enough. I’m sure this information would horrify Zara, but we live two very different lives, and at more than one point, things aren’t going to match up.

Maybe one day.

My message is noncommittal and a little vague, but it doesn’t seem to hinder the rest of our conversation. In fact, nothing does except my continuous yawning and the heavy droop of my tired eyes. I don’t want this to stop, though, now that I’ve ripped the Band-Aid off and faced my fear. This place with Zara, where we aren’t really anything, yet there is something between us, is a place I want to live in, a bubble I don’t want to burst.

But because life is a cliché, and all things come to an end, I wake up at six a.m., my cell buried between my blankets, four unopened messages from Zara on my screen, the last one at three a.m.

It’s late, you should sleep.

Okay, maybe you’re already asleep.

Definitely asleep.

Goodnight, sweetheart.

My cheeks are getting a nice workout in the art of smiling, and to think, I thought I smiled plenty before this. My fingers move quickly, yet carefully over my cracked screen, hoping she’s still asleep, but not wanting to leave her last messages unacknowledged and unanswered.

Good morning.

I hope you slept well.

Have a good day.

11

ZARA

“Okay, does everyone have their calendars open?” I ask.

It’s a Friday night, and Jesse, Leo, Raine, and I are on a family FaceTime call. With holidays and anniversaries and birthdays coming up, it’s always a good time to just sit down and plan where everyone is going to be and when.

It isn’t a shared custody situation with strict rules of who has to be where and for how long. It had never been like that, and now that Raine is eighteen it’s a moot point anyway, because what she says goes. But we’re a close family, and we have every intention of it staying that way regardless of Raine’s age.

“I’ve got Leo here and he’s my calendar,” Jesse says, causing both Leo and Raine to roll their eyes lovingly at him.