Run To Me | BAK sequel

6.

It was very rare that you showed up somewhere early that wasn't work. Being a mother made sure of that.

You could be two steps out of the door and your daughter would realise that she'd forgotten her teddy bear. It'd be a scramble to find it and by the time you did, you were running fifteen minutes late. Or- you'd manage to lose your car keys and most of the time they'd end up in the most obvious place but it'd still take a fair amount of time to find them.

One time Rosie had locked herself in the bathroom, refusing to leave because she didn't want to go to daycare. It took half an hour to coax her out with three chocolate fish and a trip to the corner store on the way home. (because two chocolate fish simply weren't enough)

So walking into the cafe at exactly twelve fifty-seven was a shock. Three minutes early was still early and if your father were here now you would've rubbed it in his face that in fact, you could work with the clock despite his persistent taunting.

The little bell sounded above yours and Rosie's heads- a gentle ringing as you entered, little booties as well as your flats pad against the slippery floor. You watched carefully for a few moments to make sure she didn't slip after walking in the rain, mom instincts on high alert.

"Can we sit in the booth?" Rosie looks up, eyes wide in excitement. You'd never understand what it was about kids and picking booths of every single one of the other tables in restaurants and cafes.

You look over to the corner. It was a small booth, pressed up against the wall. To you, the corner booth looked like a trap, a place with no escape if you were in the middle sandwiched between a four-year-old and your ex-husband that you hadn't had the pleasure of being close with in five years.

You let out a breath, nails digging into your palms. "Yeah."

She happily walks towards it, eyeing the hot red and squeezes in one end before you, tucking herself in the very middle. Her eyes immediately fell to the menu, then to you handbag that was larger than the regular handbag.

"Colour?" You nod, reaching back to grab your bag and slide into the booth next to her. Your body immediately sinks into the leather. "Can I take my gloves off now?" She asks, "It's hot."

You nod, digging around in your bag to find the mini colouring book and pens. "Yeah, go ahead."

She reaches her two hands out, little-clothed palms waiting. "I want you to do it."

Your daughter's adorableness somehow managed to allow some of the nerves to slip away for a slight moment. That was the thing about them. They could disappear for a few seconds- a single moment but just as quick they'd come crawling back in, suffocating you again.

You place her things down on the table, a small pencil case clattering against the wood and your fingers go to the gloves where you undo and take them off accordingly. A part of you knew that Rosie should be taking them off herself, but it was the little things you wanted to hold onto- like the fact that she still needed you to do such simple tasks because one day she wouldn't anymore.

Her little hands stretch before going straight to the princess colouring book, flicking through scribbled as well as black and white pages to find one she desired bit it was more difficult than that- no, Rosie had to find the princess that best represented how she felt at that very moment.

You watched as she flicked through, little hums slipping from her lips as she leant over the table. Chubby fingers gripping a handful of colourful pencils with one hand and the paper with another.

You couldn't believe that the therapist had said not to do anything. That it was a phase and she'd get over it. How it was so normal by now to see her with little red marks, bandages and coming to you bleeding after itching too hard, you'd never understand. For a four-year-old, it shouldn't be normal.