And like most ads, it was wildly deceptive.
Taking a deep breath, she grabbed her purse and overnight bag and walked toward the kitchen entrance, praying there wouldn’t be that trouble she hated on the other side.
She opened the door quietly, hoping it didn’t make Aunt Pittypat bark for ten minutes and demand a treat.
“Daddy, I can’t! I’m tired.” Nolie’s whine echoed from the kitchen.
Oh, there was the trouble.
“Honey, focus on the word. Put that pencil down and focus.”
“I like to draw pictures. That’s a pretty flower.”
“Can you spell flower? Can you read it?”
Crista shuttered her eyes and swallowed her dread. “Hello?” she called.
“Mommy’s home!” Nolie’s voice rang out in joy at the same time Aunt Pittypat barked noisily, the two of them racing through the kitchen and into the mudroom. “Mommy! I missed you!”
“I missed you, too, Nolie-bird!” She dropped the overnight bag to reach for her little girl, scooping her up and burying her face in the locks of dark hair for a great big inhale of love.
She adored this child, her love rocking her from head to toe. Nolie leaned back, her expressive brown eyes—so like Crista’s—wide and…watery.
“Have you been crying?” Crista asked, slowly lowering her slender frame to the floor, aware of the little Yorkie zipping around the floor in excitement.
Her lower lip quivered. “Just…trying…you know… Daddy wants me to…”
“Read,” Crista whispered, taking Nolie’s hand. “I know.”
Anthony came around the mudroom entrance, his footsteps preceding the sight of his six-foot frame in the doorway.
“There you are.” He gave a smile, swiping his hand over his close-cropped chestnut hair with a sigh of pure relief. “Yeah. We missed you, Mommy.”
Her heart hitched as it always did when he playfully used the term—anytime she saw him, really. She loved him deeply, which was why the distance between them hurt so much.
“Tell Daddy I don’t have to read anymore, Mommy.” Nolie tugged at her hand. “Tell him, please. I don’t want to work today.”
Poor kid, she thought, stroking Nolie’s silky hair. She shouldn’t have to worry about “work” at seven.
“Five-minute break,” Anthony said. “Let’s get Mommy settled and we’ll just finish that last chapter. It’s a good story, right, Nolie?”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know what it’s about, Daddy. I don’t care.”
“It’s about a butterfly and a frog.” The frustration was clear in his voice, and in the shadows around his eyes. “And you have to read at least one more chapter.”
She looked up at Crista with a plea all over her little face, eyes filling again.
“It hurts to read, Mommy,” she said on a whisper. “I want to play. I want to dress-up the new Barbie that Grandma Maggie gave me for babysitting Aunt Pittypat.”
Anthony grunted. “Barbie dolls aren’t going to get you into third grade, kiddo.”
She squeezed Crista’s hand. “Please, Mommy. Please.”
Her heart slipped as she realized she hadn’t been home five full minutes, and they’d already approached the crux of their biggest battle—to go to third grade or repeat second.
She wished Nolie didn’t know the issue was even on the table—so much pressure for a child—but Anthony had insisted she understand how serious the situation really was.
As if that would make her dyslexia disappear.
