FOUR DAYS BEFORE HALLOWEEN October 27th – 9.30pm – Viola

My nerves are more frayed than the edges of the fossils I’ve spent years carefully excavating. Of course they came with a full truck, sirens blaring. And of course, Carlos was leading the charge in his firefighter gear, looking like some hero out of a romcom. And of course the universe decided that he needed to see me soaking wet—with foam bath bubbles and not enough robe, while Princess Sarah tried to run the show like she was the fire marshal.

And now the online neighborhood group is blowing up. Aunt Locelli’s play-by-play post is getting more engagement than a celebrity scandal. Mrs. Bittel is shamelessly asking how to get a personal firefighter house call, while Mrs. Clark is giving a masterclass in strategic gif placement. All. While. Tagging. Me.

I’d like “One of your most embarrassing moments for $1000”.

“Mia, bed. Now.” I try to keep my voice calm, but I’m pretty sure I still have bubbles in my hair—which I’ll need to rewash. Wonderful.

Princess Sarah is circling me like an overzealous velociraptor, her barking making my head spin. And I’m definitely not replaying the past hour in my mind like some paleontological disaster footage. Nope. Not at all.

“I’m helping!” Mia protests, but her “help” is about as useful as a T-Rex trying to make a bed. She’s shoving pillows back onto the couch, which is soaked. Because of course it is. I’m not sure if the bathtub always had a crack or if it’s the universe’s way of telling me I’ve angered the hydrological gods, but my patience has evaporated.

“The couch is soaked, Mia. Soaked.” I can feel a vein pulsing in my temple as I speak. My chest tightens, and I take a deep breath to steady myself. “We can’t put the pillows back unless you want to grow mold cultures. You have school tomorrow. Bed. Now.”

A crash from the kitchen cuts off Mia’s protest. The sound sends a jolt through my already frayed nerves. My heart pounds as we rush to investigate, Princess Sarah scurrying behind us.

Broken plates and scattered utensils cover the floor like some kind of domestic disaster zone.

“I’ve got it!” Mia shouts, darting forward.

“Mia, no!” Fear grips me like a vise. Visions of tetanus shots and ER visits flash through my mind. I lunge to stop her, my foot slipping on a fallen spoon. Time slows as I fall, my hand coming down hard on something sharp—a jagged piece of ceramic. Pain lances through my palm, hot and immediate.

“Mom! You’re bleeding!” Mia’s panicked voice seems distant. I look down to see bright red blood welling up in my palm, the cut deep and stinging fiercely.

“I’ll get a bandage!” Mia’s voice snaps me back to reality, but before I can stop her, she’s gone.

A thud, followed by a yelp and an “I’m okay,” sends me scrambling after her, my injured hand leaving smears of blood behind me. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat echoing the throbbing pain in my palm. I find Mia tangled in my work bag strap, papers raining down around her like oversized confetti.

“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice tight, trying to mask the rising panic.

“I’m fine.” She stands up without a scratch, but before I can stop her, she’s scooping up the scattered papers. Important documents, research notes—now all damp and smudged. She starts placing them back onto the couch. The wet couch.

“Mia, wait—those are—” I reach out, but she’s already moving.

“It’s okay, Mom. I’m helping again! I’m making it all better.” She’s pressing the soggy papers together, unintentionally turning them into a pulpy mess.

Princess Sarah chooses this moment to shake herself vigorously, sending droplets of water—and who knows what else—spraying across the room. The smell of wet dog intensifies, mingling with the metallic scent of my blood and the musty odor of damp paper.

My phone, buried somewhere under the couch, starts buzzing incessantly. Probably the neighborhood group chat lighting up again with more commentary on tonight’s fiasco. Or worse, it could be Carlos. The thought sends a flush of embarrassment and irritation through me.

“Mom, your phone’s ringing,” Mia points out, eyes flicking toward the couch.

“Just leave it,” I say through gritted teeth, trying to keep my voice steady.

“But it might be important!” She moves toward the couch, ready to dive in and retrieve it.

“Mia, stop!” I snap, a little more sharply than intended.

She hesitates for a moment but then continues. “I’m just trying to help!”

I clench my jaw, feeling the pressure building. “Honey, I know you’re trying to help, but right now, I need you to listen to me,” I say, attempting to soften my tone.

But then I see it—the papers she’s actually smudging together are the ones from my students. The quiz I gave them this morning. The quiz that’s on the syllabus. The quiz that’s part of their grade.

And Mia is still ruining them even more. A wave of frustration crashes over me. Despite my best efforts, something in me snaps, heat rising up my neck.

“That’s ENOUGH!” The words tear from my throat, raw and primal. “Go. Upstairs. Now. Young lady.”

The silence that follows is deafening. I’ve become my mother.

Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing—my mom’s great—but still. My mom very rarely raises her voice and I yelled those words.

Ugh.

I’m failing at this whole mother thing. I now have a mountain of soaked intelligible papers to grade that rivals the Himalayas. And I haven’t told Mia about the impending arrival of her half-sibling.

Oh, and I’m supposed to be working on an academic paper that will put me on the paleontological map. Show Mia that I can do it all. So that she knows she can do it all. Because that’s totally healthy parenting, right?

“Did you hear me?” That’s a rhetorical question—I’m sure the astronauts stationed up in space heard me.

Mia groans, chin lifted in defiance, wearing an expression I know all too well. I perfected that look. I patented that look. Heck, I probably birthed that look along with her. It’s like looking into a mirror of my younger self, only with better artistic flair and more attitude.

I take a deep breath, my heart still racing.

“I told you I’m helping and you say we should always take responsibility for our actions,” she repeats, like it makes sense to her.

“And it’s true. Talking about responsibility.” I crouch down so that we’re at eye level. “You wouldn’t need to be helping if you didn’t call the station. Why?” I sigh, rubbing the spot between my eyebrows that’s threatening to become a full-blown migraine. My hand throbs in protest. “You know you’re not supposed to use my phone, and you definitely know lying is off-limits.”

“I didn’t…” Mia starts, but I cut her off.

“Don’t.” Alright, now I’m sounding pissed off. All the books I’ve been reading. All the videos I’ve been watching. Everything I’m learning to be a good parent… well it seems to float further and further out of reach. I force myself to not blow up. No blowing up allowed. “Okay, Professor Mia, pop quiz time. Define ‘lying’ for me. And I’m not talking about the horizontal kind.”

Mia rolls her eyes so hard I’m worried they might get stuck that way. But I catch the quiver in her chin, and it nearly breaks me. Almost. “It’s saying or writing something untrue to deceive someone,” she recites, sounding like she’s swallowed a dictionary. “But I didn’t call 911. I called the station. That’s different.”

“You didn’t call my name, either,” I point out.

“I did!”

“Mia, you didn’t call my name.”

“I did! I did, I did, I did!” Her voice rises, shrill and shaky.

“I told you, do not lie to me.” My voice is firmer now, but inside, my stomach twists. “I know we’re both clearly stressed out right now. We’ll talk about all of this in the morning.”

She shakes her head as if disagreeing with me, her eyes flashing with a mix of anger and hurt. “You didn’t tell me about Dad having a baby.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. My breath catches, and for a moment, I can’t find my voice. “H-how did you know that?” I don’t stand back up, sitting on the wet floor instead-water sucking through the sweatpants I threw on so I wouldn’t flash more firefighters.

She folds her arms tightly across her chest, as if holding herself together. “Dad told me when I called him. He thought you already told me. But you didn’t. You never tell me anything!”

I feel a sharp sting—not just from my hand but from the realization of how much I’ve been avoiding this conversation. “I was going to tell you. I just… I wanted to find the right time.”

“There’s never a right time with you!” Her eyes well up with tears, and she wipes them away angrily. “You didn’t tell me! You’re hiding stuff! Why do you get to keep secrets but I can’t?”

Touché, kiddo. My shoulders sag. “You’re right,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “I should have told you.”

“So, you lied, and I didn’t. I did not lie!” Mia’s voice rises to a shrill pitch that makes my ears ring. Her face flushes red, and she grabs a pillow from the couch, hurling it to the floor. It knocks over the vase on the table with a sharp crash, sending flowers, water, and more broken glass scattering across the hardwood.

“Mia, stop!”

But Mia doesn’t listen. She throws another pillow into the mess.

“What did I say? Stop.”

As my voice echoes through the room, Princess Sarah flattens her ears and scurries into the corner. She circles nervously, her tail tucked between her legs. A small puddle begins to form beneath her.

“Oh no, Princess,” I sigh, the frustration in my chest tightening further. Loud voices always make her anxious. That was in the shelter’s brief when we got her. I should have remembered that.

The sight of her trembling adds another layer of guilt. She’s just as overwhelmed as the rest of us.

Fantastic.

I clench my fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms, fighting the urge to scream. My kitchen is a war zone, my dog is regressing, and my daughter…

“That’s it,” I say through gritted teeth, my voice low and dangerous. “You’re grounded. Go upstairs. Now.”

Mia’s eyes widen, her fierce expression faltering for a moment. She blinks rapidly, her bottom lip quivering ever so slightly.

“Fine,” she mutters, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s bedtime anyway.” She turns her gaze downward, shoulders slumping as if the weight of the all the dinosaurs in history just settled on them.

The sudden shift from fiery defiance to subdued resignation tugs at my heart. I can see the little girl behind the anger—the one who’s confused and hurt. Part of me wants to reach out, to pull her into a hug and tell her everything will be okay. But I also know she needs boundaries, consistency.

“Tomorrow, you’re going to your grandparents’ straight after school.” The words taste bitter, but I force them out.

The look of betrayal on Mia’s face is like another punch to the gut. My chest tightens, and a lump forms in my throat. The air between us is thick with unspoken words and hurt feelings.

“But… I was supposed to have a playdate with Charlotte at her grandparents’ house.”

“Not anymore. And you will be cleaning this weekend.”

“It’s Halloween this weekend,” she protests, her voice rising an octave.

“Halloween is one evening not two days. Now, upstairs.”

“You can’t cancel Halloween. It’s the Hendersons’ magic show for the shelter! And then we’re having the sleepover with the scary stories with Damian and Maddie there! It’s to help the doggies and kitties.”

I hesitate. I’ve already grounded her for tomorrow. No playdate. But before I can decide about the weekend, I need to understand. “Why did you call the station and lie?”

At those words, Mia’s face hardens again, eyes narrowing as she crosses her arms over her chest. Her chin juts forward in that stubborn way she had as a toddler, right before a meltdown. But this time, she refuses to break.

“I didn’t lie!” Her voice wavers, high-pitched and shaky. “I called for you, and you didn’t answer. You never listen! Why do you always make me feel like everything’s my fault?” Her eyes glisten, but she blinks back the tears, locking her gaze on mine with a look of pure accusation. “You and Mr. Myerson… you’re ruining everything! I hate you!”

Her words slice through the air, sharp and unforgiving. I feel like the ground has opened up beneath me and I glance at the friendship bracelet my daughter made me at summer camp. Except now, there’s one with the words “mom-guilt” squeezing my heart.

Because there it is. The inevitable “I hate you.” I’d been preparing for this moment in theory, sure. I’ve read all the books on how to handle preteen emotions, how to ride out the storm of rage and resentment like some calm, centered, award-winning, teacher-extraordinaire, trivia-loving paleontologist.

But in practice? It hits like a meteor to the chest.

I swallow hard, my mouth dry. “Mia…”

She steps back as I reach out, her small frame trembling. “No,” she whispers. “Don’t.”

My hand hovers in the air before I let it drop. The sting in my injured palm is nothing compared to the ache in my heart.

“I love you, Mia. Yesterday, today, tomorrow. Always,” I say softly. “And it’s not your job to love me back. I’ll always be there for you. I know you’re angry. And those are big feelings.”

“That’s because I didn’t lie. Not really. I called your name. Not loud. Maybe, I whispered it. But I called it.”

I take a slow breath, choosing my words carefully. “But Mia, if you whispered my name, you knew I wouldn’t hear you, right? And then you took my phone and called the station when you’re not supposed to use it.”

She shifts from one foot to the other, avoiding my gaze. “I still called you,” she mumbles.

“But you knew I wouldn’t hear you,” I gently point out. “That’s like pretending you tried when you really didn’t.”

Her cheeks flush, and she crosses her arms tightly. “Well, you didn’t tell me about Dad’s baby!” she blurts out. “You keep secrets from me!”

“I told you I was going to tell you. I just… wanted to find the right time.”

“You always say that!” she exclaims, her eyes filling with tears again. “You never tell me anything important!”

“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “I should have told you sooner. But taking my phone without asking and calling the fire station isn’t okay.”

She stomps her foot. “It’s not fair! You lied first! Why should I have to tell the truth when you don’t?”

“It’s not about who did what first,” I reply, trying to keep my voice calm. “It’s about being honest with each other.”

She scowls, her lower lip trembling. “You don’t care! You’re always busy with work! You never listen to me!” She stares at me, her expression a mix of anger and hurt. “I really, really hate you!” she shouts, and before I can respond, she turns and runs up the stairs, her footsteps echoing like distant thunder. Princess Sarah follows her like she wants to make sure she’s okay. And I hear Mia murmuring to her, “You’re the bestest dog in the world and I love you so much.”

And then…

The slam of her bedroom door reverberates through the house.

I sit there, surrounded by the wreckage—the broken glass, the puddle slowly seeping into the floorboards. At least the blood has stopped dripping from my hand.

I stand up, exhaling slowly, but the “I-messed-up” reel is playing on loop in my mind as I head to the downstairs powder room—the one with the cabinet I still need to repair—and grab a bandage. The sting of the antiseptic has me wincing, but it’s the entire evening with Mia that has my insides twisting and twisting and twisting.

I’m here to nurture her and instill values I believe are crucial. I can be the environmental factor, showing by example. I can teach her that kindness is important, that boundaries are necessary, and that mistakes are just evolutionary steps toward growth.

Talking to my therapist will help—she’s been crucial during the divorce, showing me how to support myself, do the work, and guiding me on how to better support Mia’s development.

For instance, admitting when I’ve made a misstep—like not telling her about her dad’s baby, or yelling at her. That’s something I need to apologize for, just as I would acknowledge an error in my research.

So, I trek upstairs to kiss my daughter goodnight, formulating a plan to bridge this growing chasm between us. Maybe tomorrow, we’ll have breakfast together—no phones, no distractions. And I’ll call Dr. Peterson to move up my appointment. Navigating motherhood is like embarking on a new dig—challenging, unpredictable, but oh so important.

As long as I keep showing up. Because parenting’s less about getting it right all the time and more about being there. Day by day, moment by moment, screw-ups and all. And making sure I’m laying down positive sediment for her future self to build upon.

Right?

Baby T-Rex steps, Viola. Baby T-Rex steps. Oh, and maybe less flashing your former best friend turned volunteer firefighter.

SO… What did you think? Email me at: authorelodienowodazkij@gmail.com