I'm Only Second Best

The December morning began with a soft glow of morning light, peaking out through snow clouds, desperately trying to shine for attention. Flecks of white powder sprinkled across the horizon, already coating lights, reindeer, and Santas, all set for display, all clearly seen from the little front window. The room was filled with the aroma of chocolate chip cookies, freshly out of the oven. The front room was warmly decorated with soft beige walls, a wreath on the front door, the blue and silver Christmas tree, bathed in white lights, in the back-right corner beside the window, the television on the left side of it. The black coffee table in the middle of the room was covered in glitter and little pieces of white paper, left by a little girl too excited to clean after her night of Christmas card making. Linda took a deep breath, wanting this moment to be ingrained in her memory forever. A first Christmas with her little girl, Marissa, one without her rat-bastard of a cheating father, Glen. He just could never keep it in his pants, and she was just never enough. She’d never be enough for him. That’s why his stuff was thrown into the lawn, covered in mud, sludge, and whatever garbage she could draw up before she, a now single, 25-year-old woman, took Marissa, her little angel of five years, and left.

As much as Linda wanted to be happy to be on her own with small child in tow, there was the burden of two jobs and late shifts, sleepless nights full of a small child’s cries at night of “Why can’t Daddy come home?” and her own cries to herself wondering, “Will I be enough for her?” The weight of being the bad guy more often than the good guy; spankings for a tantrum, and a reward for listening the first time; the phone calls from a mother, now a grandmother, pleading, “Linda, it’s okay to come back and let me help you. I want to be here for you,” and repeatedly saying, “We are fine,” when the woman feels anything but fine. Looking into the mirror, she would see sunk in and weary light blue eyes, not a trace of light within them, blonde hair that had lost its golden luster from lack of concern for proper color treatment, and a few times, crescent moon-shaped red marks along her cheeks, the only source of color in them, when she found herself crying and asking “What next?”

“Mommy?”

If anyone could recognize that groggy little voice, it was Linda Carter. She swore she would be able to pick it out in a crowd; specially trained “Mommy Ears” that always could find the sound of their little one’s voices. The young woman quickly moved to the child, lifting her into her arms. She had her momma’s pretty blue eyes when they were full of happiness and love, but her sperm donor’s brown hair. Oh well, Marissa looked prettier with the color anyhow.

“Yes, Princess?” the mother asked, gently rocking the still tired little girl in her arms. She could feel those same little arms tighten around her in a way that made her own heart race in her chest, pound against it like a sledgehammer to drywall during remodeling. There was a suffocating silence between the two of them, and the mother decided to walk her to the kitchen, finding the earlier plated cookies. She set her on the kitchen counter top before taking one cookie, still comfortingly warm, and handed it to her.

“…I miss Daddy.” Those words cut through Linda worse than a rusted spoon to an eye, and for a moment, her usually unwavering strength in front of the child wavered.

“I know, baby girl.”

“But Mommy?”

“Yes, baby?”

Another long pause, and Marisa took her time in taking a slow bite of her cookie. When she looked up finally, she smiled.

“You’re the best cookie baker in the whole world.”