Mommy Book

"I’m sure I left it on the counter. Someone is always moving my things." Ron could not be bothered by this. Every day his wife suggests the children have moved her keys, taken her hairbrush and the housekeeper put her towel in the wrong bathroom or moved an important piece of mail. For someone as organized and productive as Molly attempted to be, she was always frazzled or frantically looking for something.

"I need it. It's the notes on Oladele." This did not peak Ron's interest or inspire investment in the search beyond a quick scan of the room.

“Has anyone seen a slip of paper with a phone number?” She broadcasts to the rest of the family scattered around the house. "Has anyone seen...?” Yelling had become commonplace in this house.

"Maybe it's in one of your ten thousand notebooks." She meets his condescension by staring daggers. He dodges by turning to face his youngest child, Malachi, pretending to redirect him. The farce is unconvincing as Malachi is in no need of redirection. This is the one time he is not climbing on the furniture or running around the living room.

Malachi stutters, "Mommy book."

Ron's lazy reply was not ignored completely. She opened the cabinet drawer in the kitchen, where she leaves most of her notebooks. She fingers the spines of several, stopping on one in particular, her beautiful Moleskine. This one was mostly blank, but she held it a little longer than the others. This was the one she would be writing her masterpiece in. Margot was an experienced physical therapist and toyed with the idea of writing a physical therapy for the layperson type of book. It didn't matter that the book only had a few scribbled notes; she loved seeing the clean blank pages and imagining all the great ideas she would fill it with. The thought lasted until the reality of her distracted life got in the way. Her lack of progress did not bother her. She was confident she would eventually get to it, and she appreciated the book's elegance in a manner that caused her hesitation to write in it and tarnish the clean white pages.

She rummaged through two drawers filled with notebooks, folders, paper, her missing hairbrush, and other random items.

At her desk, she riffled through even more papers and another notebook. Malachi giggled. It always amuses him the way his mother gets flustered and zigzags around the house looking for things. "Mommy book." This contribution was disregarded with no reaction.

Molly considered the laundry room. She had a habit of carrying lists with her around the house, and often her sticky notes, index cards, notebooks, etc. ended up on the shelf next to the laundry detergent. Before leaving her desk, a thought struck her. Did she feel some obstruction when she closed the kitchen drawers? She returned to the first drawer, and as suspected, a few papers had fallen between the back of the cabinet and the wall. Hidden from sight, on the floor were papers that had fallen from the crowded drawer.

She contorted her arm and tried to reach the treasure. "I wish everyone would stop cramming these drawers full of crap." she blurted out, aware that most of the crap was deposited there by her. She pulled out a small notebook, a few pens and a random paper. Despite a moment of hope, a brief investigation revealed one of the papers was assembly instructions for Ron's recent remote control drone purchase.

Molly was not going to get sidetracked by her anxiety over Ron's impulse buys. The children have witnessed too many instances of her scolding their father about spending money on non-essential items. She would be justified, however. Ron has been out of work for nearly four months. Her paycheck had to stretch to cover their mortgage, utilities, food, and other household expenses. Molly empathized with her husband's layoff and knew he was trying hard to find new employment, but was he oblivious that every time he pulled out his credit card, their credit card, her stomach sank. She dreaded going into work the next day, knowing a healthy slice of her salary was going to his tool collection, and that damn drone.

She looked at the small black notebook in her hand. She had been looking for that as well. Those were her notes for a YouTube channel she planned to launch. She fancied herself a master in the kitchen. She had the magic touch for preparing easy-to-make food the kids loved. This channel was going to be a success. The most recent entry was made two years ago.

She told herself she would revisit the project when she had more time. Molly put the notebook back in the top drawer rather than bringing it ten feet over to her desk.

Molly finally made her way to the laundry room. As expected, there was a small pile of papers on the shelf of detergents. One sheet was filled with account numbers and a variety of budgeting notes. She spent a minute on the next sheet jogging her memory and trying to recall what the random phone number was. It was written on an overdue utility bill. She wasn't going to waste time on that now. She had pinched a nerve reaching behind the drawer earlier and did not want to think about what other bills were due.

"It's getting late; why don't you help me put the kids down? I'm sure it will turn up tomorrow." Ron called. Her anxiety rose as she considered the tactics she might need to employ to put three kids, who were not eager to sleep, to sleep. The feeling of despair detached her from her will to continue her search.

She turned the lights out in the laundry room, catching a glimpse of the trash bin as she exited. "It's not impossible that I wrote it on the pizza box," she spoke out loud to no one. She laughed at herself, acknowledging the absurdity of her statement. It was her belief that people never actually talk to themselves. She retrieved the box and of course there were a few notes and the name "Dr. Benjamin" scribbled over, or perhaps under, a large spot of grease. This was a find, though not what she was looking for.

Charlotte, her middle child, had recently been diagnosed with autism spectrum challenges. Molly and Ron had stressed for years over the prospect of this potential diagnosis. Now official, her friend Nnedi gave her a specialist’s name, Dr. Benjamin. Who was she kidding though, they couldn't afford a specialist.

Molly began to cry quietly. She knew there was no room in this house for her emotions and would not inconvenience anyone with her anxiety. Molly took a deep breath. She prepared herself emotionally to tuck her children in bed. She will tell each child she loves them. She sighed, knowing that one of them will never say it back.

Peter, her eldest, was first. As a preteen, he was of course, too old for a story, but he secretly loved when his mother wisped back the long bangs covering his eyes, the soft touch of her fingers and the light scrape of her painted nails.

“I love you Peter." "I love you too Mom.”

Next was Charlotte's room. Molly read her a short story. Charlotte was very interested in princesses and castles. Charlotte had a fondness for medieval history and the hierarchy of feudal rule in 12th century England. Charlotte could not be bothered with childish stories of fairy-tale princesses. The Little Prince was the one age-appropriate tale she would sit still for.

“I love you Charlotte.”

Ron was in Malachi's room. He had to be uncomfortable. Ron did not quite fit on the bed. He was contorted on his back with one leg hanging off the side of the bed. Ron's shirt could not contain his expanding stomach and a bit of his belly hung out the bottom of the faded gray top. She might have found more humor in it had she not been harboring resentment toward his shopping spree at the mall last week and his indifference tonight to her search.

"Well, this one just doesn't want to go down." Ron declared with a look of defeat. Molly rolled her eyes. "Is that your way of asking me to read to him tonight? You know he won't go down without a story. " Ron pulled his shirt down over his belly and stumbled out of bed in a clumsy gesture of acquiescence.

"Mommy book," exclaimed Malachi. "Yes sweetheart, Mommy will read you a story." She meant to display a face that matched her calm voice, but she winced as she looked for a book on the nightstand. She was not in the mood to read another kid's book and the only thing on the nightstand was the same Dr. Seuss book she had read the past two nights. No way, she thought. She tried, but her face could not hide her contempt as she looked up for her husband, who had already left.

Molly sat on the bed, defeated. She watched with her still sunken face as a smiling Malachi pulled out a black leather-bound book from under his pillow. "What is this?" She took the book from her son. She opened it to examine it. It was a notebook and it opened immediately to an email address clearly written by her hand.

She kissed Malachi on the head and climbed into bed. From the blank, unfamiliar pages, she read to him about dragons, race cars, and ballet dancers. It didn't all work, but it had a plot, a climax, and silly voices. Malachi was more than satisfied. Molly, pleased with herself, still not thrilled with Ron, went looking for her cell phone. It wasn't in her purse, her jacket, or the console table. "Who keeps moving every dang thing in this house?" She asked the ceiling as she strained her head back. Not waiting for an answer, she retrieved it from the bathroom sink where she had left it earlier.

She typed out the following email message:

“Regards, I was at your place last week to pick up the high chair you sold me on Craigslist. I believe I left a folder and some papers by mistake. Is it possible you found or have them?”

Unsure if she would receive a response, Molly was satisfied that she did all she could do. Her motto to keep her serenity for the past month has been, "All I can do is all I can do." Satisfied, she leaned back in her chair, smiled and examined the notebook she swore she had never seen before. It was bound in beautiful black leather. She closed her eyes and felt its weight and smoothness. Feeling a texture, she flipped it over and looked at the back cover. Embossed in the leather, she read, "Mommy's Book. We love you."

A poet, Ron was not.

The next day, Molly was thrilled to get her folder back. Inside was the purchase agreement made with a developer, Mason Oladele, for a pre-construction home that was contracted to be built years ago. The builder frequently delayed the project, ultimately disappearing with Molly's small deposit. This agreement was necessary evidence of the real estate deal. With this document, her lawyer advised her that they could proceed with a lawsuit against the developer for the deposit and damages of $115,000, which represented the difference between the cost of the home at the time of the agreement and the increased cost of a similar property two years later when it became clear the property would never be built.

One month later, a judge ruled for Molly and Ron, deciding that this met the standard for fraud, and treble damages would be awarded. $360,000 would not fix her life, but it was a surprise and would sure help.