Reconciled for Easter

“Mia! Are you ready to go?” Abigail Morgan called out from the kitchen, trying to put dirty dinner plates into the dishwasher and send an e-mail from her laptop at the same time.

It was almost six already, and Abigail needed to leave for a work function in less than an hour. She still had to shower and dress—not to mention pull the house into some sort of order and make sure her daughter had everything she needed for the weekend.

Flustered and too hot in the stuffy house, Abigail finished typing a reply to her boss and pressed Send, hoping she hadn’t spelled any words wrong. She finished loading the dishwasher before she set it to run. “Mia!” she called again. “What are you doing?”

She knew the answer before she heard the little voice reply, “Reading.”

Abigail closed down her laptop and glanced over the counter. There were piles of books and mail and homework sheets scattered around but no crumbs or dirty pots and pans. Not too bad, considering.

Abigail picked up one of Mia’s books and a well-worn stuffed dog from the kitchen table before she went into the living room to find her daughter curled up in a ball on the couch. Reading, of course.

“Are you packed and ready to go?”

Mia lifted reluctant blue eyes and peered at her mother through small, wire-framed glasses. “Yeah.”

“You have clothes for tomorrow and your brush and toothbrush?”

“Yeah.”

“You have panties?”

Mia rolled her eyes. She was only six years old, but she’d always been an oddly mature child—extremely smart, frequently shy, and scarily observant. She didn’t have very many friends her own age, and she listed the postman, the old lady with the poodle next door, and the butcher at the grocery store as the people she liked to hang out with.

Sometimes Abigail worried about her, and sometimes she stared at her daughter in awe.

“Mom,” Mia sighed, still focused on the pages of her book.

A couple of months ago, Mia had forgotten to pack panties for one of her visits with her father. This lapse in memory had necessitated some improvisation on the part of Abigail’s estranged husband—something Abigail would prefer not to repeat.

“Did you pack panties?” Abigail asked again.

“Yes.”

“Here’s this book.” Abigail crammed the chapter book she’d grabbed from the counter into Mia’s purple case. “You’re only halfway through this one. And you’ve got that one you’re reading now. Did you bring a couple more? You know how sometimes you run out.”

“I brought four books, and Daddy always gives me more.”

“I know, but it’s best if you bring enough for the whole weekend.”

Mia devoured books, and her reading abilities were far more advanced than her age group. But more than once Abigail had been surprised at what she’d found her daughter reading upon returning from weekends with her father.

Abigail reached over and smoothed down some flyaways in Mia’s long reddish-blond braids. “All right. Put up your book. Your daddy will be here any minute.”

“He might be late.”

“He won’t be late today,” she said, hoping she was speaking the truth. Thomas was often late—sometimes so late Mia would decide he wasn’t coming at all. He hadn’t been late as much recently though, so Abigail could speak with some degree of confidence. “He said he would get here on time.”

Mia wrinkled her nose. “You just want me to leave so you can go out to your dinner.”

“Mia, you know that’s not true.” She squatted on the floor next to the couch and held her daughter’s gaze. “You know I always miss you when you’re gone.”

The girl frowned but didn’t argue.

Feeling a knot of worry tighten in her throat, Abigail asked, “Are you a little upset that I’m going to this dinner tonight?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? We sometimes have dinner with people who might donate money to Milbourne House. It’s part of my job. Is there anything you want to ask me about it?”

Mia’s blue eyes were level and strangely wary. “Are you going to dinner with Mr. Foster?”

Abigail sucked in a breath at the implications of the question. “He’ll be at the dinner, but there will be other people there too. We’re not going to dinner together just by ourselves.”

“Does he like you?”

“Does who like me? Mr. Foster? He’s my boss. I think he likes me, but not in any special way.”

Mia was still frowning.

“Why did you ask that, Mia? What are you worried about?”

“Are you going to date Mr. Foster?”

“No! No, of course not. I just work with him. I’m still married to Daddy. There’s nothing for you to worry about with that.”