Chapter 2- My Kids, My Rules

Dawn's POV "Mom!" I blinked, looking away from the kitchen cabinet I'd been staring into for the last five minutes. My thirteen-year-old son, Evan, stood in the doorway, his red hair sticking up in several directions. And his backpack hanging from one shoulder. "What?" "You're doing it again." "Doing what?" "Staring at stuff." I looked at the cabinet. Then back at him. "I'm trying to figure out where the plates should go." He frowned. "Why don't you just put them where they were at the old house?" I stared at him. He stared back. "Because, sweetheart, this isn't the old house." "I know that." "Then why would the cabinets be the same?" He shrugged. "Seems like they should be." And with that brilliant observation, my son walked toward the refrigerator. I sighed. Teenagers. My sweet little boy had somehow transformed into a walking encyclopedia of random facts, questionable logic, and endless hunger. He'd recently turned thirteen. Thirteen! I swear, yesterday I was holding him in my arms, marveling at his tiny fingers. Now he's rapidly approaching my height. And I'm five foot seven! Give him another year, and I'll probably have to look up at him. Which is incredibly rude, considering I grew him myself. Getting pregnant with him hadn't been easy. Polycystic ovary syndrome. PCOS. four little letters that caused me more frustration and heartbreak than I care to remember. My ovaries apparently took one look at their assigned responsibilities and decided to go on permanent vacation. But eventually, I got my boy. My first baby. Evan has beautiful brown eyes like mine, but that red hair certainly didn't come from me. Actually, both my children have red hair. Ana has gorgeous blue eyes, while Evan inherited my brown ones. Me? Brown hair. Brown eyes. And a complexion considerably darker than either of my children. Although lately, my brown hair has apparently decided it needs some additional decoration. Gray. Freaking gray! Little silver strands keep popping up like uninvited guests at a barbecue. I'm forty, not eighty! And don't even get me started on the number of people who've questioned whether Evan and Ana are actually mine. Seriously. I've had complete strangers look at my children, look at me, and ask if I'm their mother. Nope. Just picked them up at the grocery store. They were having a buy-one-get-one-free special. Of course they're mine! I carried both of them for nine months, thank you very much. And while neither child looks particularly like me, they both inherited my stubbornness. Lucky me. Evan is on the autism spectrum and has ADHD. Which means life can be interesting. He's energetic, curious, stubborn. And capable of asking approximately seven hundred questions before I've finished my morning coffee. But he's also thoughtful. He helps around the house, loves learning to cook, and sometimes surprises me with how much he notices. I wouldn't change him for the world. "Mom?" "What now?" "Can we make spaghetti tonight?" I smiled. "You want to help?" "Can I make the sauce?" "Absolutely." "Cool." He grabbed his water bottle. "Love you, Mom." "Love you too, baby." "Mom!" I grinned. "What?" "Don't call me baby." "Sorry, baby." He groaned. I laughed. Some things were simply too entertaining to give up. Getting both kids out the door for school that morning had been an adventure. Especially Ana. My six-year-old daughter. My beautiful, fiery little redhead with the clearest blue eyes I've ever seen. Ana has severe autism and significant communication challenges. For years, I've celebrated every sound, every attempt at communication, and every new word. Some people probably wouldn't understand why hearing your six-year-old say a simple sentence could make you cry. But I do. Because I know how hard she's worked to get there. Yesterday, Ana did something that absolutely blew my mind. I was sitting on the couch, exhausted after another long day of unpacking, when she walked over to me. She studied my face for a moment. Then, in her sweet little voice, she asked, "Are you okay?" Four words. Four beautiful, wonderful words. I froze. Then I looked at her. "Did you just ask Mommy if she's okay?" She smiled. And I swear my heart nearly exploded. I scooped her into my arms, kissed her cheeks, and celebrated like my football team had just won the Super Bowl. Ana laughed. I cried. Pink barked because apparently she thought we were throwing a party without inviting her. And Evan came running into the living room, wanting to know what happened. When I told him, he grinned. "She said a whole sentence?" "She did!" "That's awesome!" Yes. Yes, it was. Some parents celebrate touchdowns, trophies, and honor-roll certificates. I celebrate those things, too. But I also celebrate words. Sentences. Little moments that other people might not think twice about. Because in our house, those moments mean everything. Now, with both children safely at school, I was finally getting somewhere with the kitchen. Or at least pretending to. Boxes were scattered across the floor. Half my dishes were still wrapped in packing paper. And I had absolutely no idea where I'd packed the coffee filters. Which was rapidly becoming a national emergency. Pink, our German Shepherd, was sprawled across the rug in front of the back door. Watching me. Judging me. Probably wondering why I hadn't given her another treat. "Don't look at me like that." Her ears perked up. "No." Her tail thumped. "Pink." Another thump. "You've already had two." She tilted her head. Oh, for crying out loud. I reached into the treat container. "You're spoiled rotten." She accepted the treat with the dignity of a queen receiving tribute. And yes, her name really is Pink. No, I didn't name her. When I adopted her from the animal shelter, she was wearing a pink collar. Ana walked right up to her, pointed at the collar, and said, "Pink." And apparently, that settled it. I could've named the dog something intimidating. Athena. Shadow. Raven. But nope. Pink. A beautiful German Shepherd with a name that sounds like she should be wearing a tutu. Not that she seems to mind. "At least one of us is comfortable," I muttered. Pink stretched out across the rug. I glanced around my new kitchen. My kitchen. In my house. In South Carolina. Even after everything, it still felt strange. For twenty years, nearly every decision I'd made involved considering my husband's wants, needs, excuses, or opinions. Now? I could put the plates wherever I damn well pleased. I could decorate the house however I wanted. I could listen to music without someone complaining. And if I wanted to eat cereal for dinner? Nobody was going to tell me otherwise. Well, except Evan. He'd probably insist on spaghetti. I smiled to myself. Moving across the country hadn't been easy. Finding a home, arranging the children's schooling and support services. Making sure they had what they needed had taken months of planning. I'd worried about how they'd handle the changes. New surroundings. New routines. New people. But we'd taken our time. And now we were here. Starting over. Together. I wasn't looking for another husband. Hell, I wasn't particularly interested in dating. Twenty years of marriage had cured me of any desire to rush into another relationship. That didn't mean I'd stopped believing in love. I hadn't. But any man who wanted a place in my life would have to understand something. My children came first. Always. Their happiness, their safety, their routines, and their individual needs weren't negotiable. I wasn't interested in introducing some man into their lives only to have him disappear when things became inconvenient. And I certainly wasn't looking for another grown adult to support. Been there. Done that. Burned the damn T-shirt. I wanted peace. A comfortable home. Happy children. A successful writing career. And maybe, occasionally, eight uninterrupted hours of sleep. Although that last one was probably asking too much. My phone buzzed on the counter. I glanced at the screen. Another email from a reader. PLEASE TELL ME YOU'RE NOT GOING TO KILL HIM! I snorted. "Oh, sweetheart. That depends entirely on my mood." Pink lifted her head. "Not you, Pink." She settled back down. I picked up another plate and slid it into the cabinet. Forty years old. Divorced. Two kids. One ridiculously named German Shepherd. A career I never expected. And an entirely new life waiting outside my front door. For the first time in a very long time, I had absolutely no idea what the future held. And strangely enough? I was okay with that. Actually... I was more than okay. I was happy. Now, if I could just find those damn coffee filters.