Betsy Amant - Her Family Wish

“I saw you go into Ms. Davis’s room after school.” Abby twisted in her seat to face him as he pulled onto the frontage road. “Did you meet Ms. Hart?”

Jude kept his eyes on the traffic, partly for safety but mostly because he knew Abby’s game. Her slightly-higher-pitched-than-usual tone proved she was feeling him out about the pretty new assistant. She’d used the same pitch about her fourth grade gym coach, her fifth grade room mother, and her sixth grade math teacher. Matchmaking ran thick in Abby’s blood—yet made him want to run the other way. He’d dated here and there, but no one had been worth risking his heart over. It looked like his dream of having a big family would have to wait a little while longer. He might be over Miranda, but the effects of the woman lingered like a bad perfume.

“Yes, I met her.” He kept his voice level, even as traitorous thoughts of Hannah flitted in his mind. His hands tightened on the wheel. So what if she was attractive? So what if her silky dark hair danced across her shoulders with each turn of her head? So what if her eyes shone such a rich brown it took him a full minute before he noticed the three-inch scar marring her cheek?

None of that mattered. Hannah took pictures for a living, and now taught the skill to the students—to his Abby. His stomach clenched as he flipped on his blinker. If this wasn’t a credit-counting elective and if missing several weeks wouldn’t set Abby back to the point of likely failing, he’d pull her out to avoid the whole photography unit. But that would raise questions—no one would understand why.

Especially not Abby.

“Did you think she was nice?” Abby pressed, yanking the tie off one of her braids and combing her hair with her fingers.

“I only spoke with her for a minute, sweetie.” Long enough to know he was glad this was a temporary course. He could grit his teeth for a few weeks and make the best of it. Surely Abby wouldn’t be corrupted to the point of becoming like her mother in less than a month—right? After all, photography wasn’t modeling. But it was close enough to make him uneasy. What if Abby learned so much about the behind the scenes part that she decided she wanted to learn about being in front of the camera, too?

That would be the first step of many—and one he couldn’t allow.

Abby flipped the visor down to check her reflection in her mirror. She rubbed her bare face with her fingers and sighed. “Lindsey was wearing makeup today.”

Jude fought the automatic parental response threatening to roll off his tongue about friends and bridge jumping. “We’ve talked about this before, Abby. Twice, actually.”

“But it doesn’t make sense.” Abby shut the visor with a snap as Jude pulled into the driveway of their modest, ranch-style home. “Most of the girls in my class wear makeup now. I’m almost thirteen.”

“You don’t need makeup.” Jude hoped his voice conveyed the same finality he felt in his heart. “And you won’t be thirteen for a few months.” Three and a half, to be exact, and he was clinging to every last second. Although it felt like Abby had been a teenager for at least a year already. He shifted into Park and turned off the ignition. And to think he used to dread the terrible twos.

Abby made no move to get out of the car. “I’m not talking about black eyeliner and hot pink lipstick. Just a little lip gloss and mascara.”

Maybe that was all for now. But as Miranda taught him, inches gave way to miles, and if Jude gave in today, Abby would be on the fast track to false eyelashes and stilettos. Begging to wear makeup would lead to begging for professional head shots and the next thing he knew, he’d have created a monster.

Again.

“Don’t push this. My decision stands.” Jude tugged off his seat belt, exhaustion knotting his neck.

She snorted. “If my mother were still alive she’d—”

“Abby!”

“What? It’s not my fault she died when I was little. You never want to talk about her, and that’s almost as annoying as your stupid rules.”

Abby might have the details wrong, but the main truth of that statement smacked Jude in the stomach like a boxing glove. She was right—he didn’t want to talk about Miranda. Didn’t want Abby to know the truth about her mom. The mother figure she’d made up in her head all these years had kept Abby from feeling rejected, kept her from insecurities she shouldn’t have to face at such a young age.

It just made Jude the bad guy.

Her tirade finished, and knowing she’d crossed a line, Abby wisely remained silent as she unbuckled her seat belt and threw open the car door. She stomped up the stone walkway to the house, where she waited with her back rigid for him to come with the keys.

Jude took his time pulling his briefcase from the backseat, giving them both a little space to cool off. Maybe he was being strict, but Abby didn’t understand. If she knew what her mother had done, had become, she’d get it. But he couldn’t tell her now, not during this sensitive time in her life. The teen years were hard enough without discovering your mother abandoned you as a kid because she preferred the bright lights and airbrushed pages of modeling to motherhood—and the recreational drugs that flowed in abundance and were her ultimate demise.

No, Abby shouldn’t have to deal with the same pain Jude spent nearly a decade muddling through. Since she didn’t have any memories of Miranda, Jude had mercifully put off the questions over the years, being just vague enough for Abby to draw her own conclusions. It was close enough.

And much better than the truth.

* * *

Hannah felt funny peering in the door to the teachers’ lounge, as if she were once again a student wondering what on earth the adults did in there all day. She wasn’t a kid anymore, but she wasn’t an official staff member, either, so the unease lingered.

She poked her head around the frame of the mostly deserted room and looked for Sophia, who said to meet her during her break before the last period. Hopefully Jude wouldn’t be inside. She couldn’t bear to face him yet after the awkward conversation from Monday. Hannah’s eyes darted anxiously to each table. Did assistant principals even use the lounge? Sophia waved from a corner table, and Hannah exhaled in relief as she made her way over.

“Decaf coffee? Stale donut?” Sophia pointed with a laugh to the unappealing array of leftovers, sitting on the counter by the sink cluttered with mugs.

Hannah made her way toward her, ducking her head to hide her scarred cheek as she passed a table of teachers hunched over what seemed to be lesson plans. “As, uh, tempting as that is, no thanks.” She smiled and adjusted the strap on her camera bag. “How has the rest of the week gone?”

“They’re slowly getting into it.” Sophia brushed some crumbs off the table, then crumpled her napkin and tossed it into the trash can. “They stopped asking ridiculous questions, at least.”

Hannah grinned. “That’s a start.” She tapped her bag. “I brought a lot of sample photos on lighting like you asked—even some pretty bad ones I saved from my practice days to show them the difference.”

“See, this is why I need you! You’re so much better than a textbook.” Sophia grabbed her purse and motioned for Hannah to follow her out the door. “Let’s go set up. The bell will ring in about ten minutes.”

They quickly laid out Hannah’s various photos and handouts, finishing as the bell rang. Students laughed and pushed their way inside the classroom, excited to get the last class of their Friday over with now that weekend freedom danced just out of reach.

“Come on, guys, settle down.” Sophia clapped her hands and managed to wrangle their attention. “Ms. Hart’s going to talk about lighting today.” She took the chair behind her desk and motioned for Hannah to start.