Exceptional Life's Adventures Short Stories : Follow The Winding Road by Begin Again A novel idea... contest entry

As the sunlight played across my tired eyes, I stretched lazily, and then, like so many mornings, I reached across the bed to steal a snuggle or two with my husband. My hand touched his empty pillow, and the cold, harsh truth flooded my mind once more. Salty tears streamed down my cheeks. Six months ago, James, the love of my life and soon-to-be father of two, was killed by a drunk driver as he hurried home to us. He'd been my foundation, my port-in-the-storm. Common sense told me I would survive, but my heart shattered each time I thought of him. I struggled with day-to-day living. For every step I took forward, another pulled me deeper into the abyss. The ringing of the alarm clock jolted my thoughts. I pulled the down comforter over my head, burying my face in his pillow. His scent still lingered there, but it wasn't enough. I needed his reassuring arms, his encouraging kiss, and his unending love, things I would never have again. I listened for any sounds of Katie, my five-year-old daughter. The house was silent except for the ticking of the clock. Snuggling deeper under the covers, I fully intended to search for sleep, but a quick jab to my swollen stomach, and then another, and the thought vanished. I rolled over, hoping to find a position my unborn child would find relaxing. Not a chance! Rat-a-tat-tat! During the night, a drummer must have taken up residence in my womb. The jabbing and poking persisted, much in the same way James teased me when we needed to get up and get busy. A small smile tugged at my lips. "Okay, okay. You must be daddy's boy." I sat up and stretched, working the kinks out of my weary body. "I know it's moving day." With the baby's due date fast approaching and after months of procrastination, Katie and I were moving back to Illinois. My parents were ecstatic. We'd found a small house near a park, and coincidentally, only two blocks from the exuberant grandparents. My five-year-old was thrilled, but I was less than excited. Mom's help would be greatly appreciated, but I remembered Dad's well-meant but sometimes over-powering ways. Besides, I hadn't just sold a house; I was letting go of a tangible piece of James. With little motivation, I worked my tired body into appropriate moving day clothes, slipped on my shoes, and waddled down the hallway. As I passed through the living room, my steps faltered. Leaning against James's favorite chair, I closed my eyes, shutting out the stacks of cardboard boxes. My mind drifted, remembering the good times ... our first Christmas, the day we brought Katie home, stolen moments just for the two of us after our daughter was tucked in bed, anniversaries, and, oh yeah, the night I told you I didn't really have the flu. We celebrated with grape juice and crackers. We hoped I was carrying a son. Another jab to my stomach encouraged me to stop daydreaming. I understood the subtle message loud and clear. The moving truck would be here in two hours. There were things to be done. The sound of a creaking door told me Katie was awake. Her high-pitched squeal confirmed it. "Mommy, Mommy, today's the day. Bet Grandma and Grandpa are standing on their porch waiting." Her tiny arms wrapped around my legs and squeezed. "I'm so excited." "I know, honey." I tussled her wild mane of curls. "Mommy's just tired." I shuffled toward the kitchen. Cereal would be the breakfast of the day. Katie scrambled onto a chair. Her eagerness to accept change and move on amazed me. While I was slowly placing one foot in front of another, barely getting through each day, she was bubbling over with excitement. "Mommy, I can't wait to see my new bedroom. Grandpa said he painted it pretty pink, and Grandma made new curtains for the window." I poured the bowl of cereal, sat it on the table, and remembered a spoon. I trudged what seemed like a mile back to the counter. Memories flooded my mind again. I stood there, lost in thought. "Mommy, are you going to get me a spoon? My cereal's already singing." She leaned her ear closer to the bowl. It snapped-crackled-and-popped! "Sorry, sweetheart." I returned to the table, spoon in hand. A huge sigh escaped my lips as I shuffled back to the counter. Katie slipped off the chair and placed her tiny hand inside mine. "Come on, Mommy, sit down. I'll help you." She gently tugged my arm. Didn't have to ask me twice. I waddled to the other chair, easing my wide load into it. I stretched my legs and aching feet out in front of me. The day had just begun, and I was already exhausted and in pain. "Grandpa said I was a big girl and I should help you." She stood with her hand on her hip, brows pinched. "Grandpa says-" "I know, I know. I've heard Grandpa a time or two." I offered her a weak smile. "It's just there's so much to do, and my feet hurt so bad. It hurts to walk this morning." Squatting, her tiny little fingers tugged at my left foot. "Honey, don't take mommy's shoes off. I'll never get them back on." "But Mommy-" "Please, Katie, I have so much work to finish before the truck arrives." Holding on to both sides of the chair, I pushed my body up. The other significant party kicked me again, disgruntled that I was rudely shifting him around, I suppose. "Wait, Mommy-" I ran my hand across my little girl's golden hair and tipped her tiny cherub face upward, "Please, honey, Mommy really needs to get busy." Her big blue eyes peered into mine, and she innocently answered, "Yes, Mommy, but I think you'd feel better if you put your shoes on the right feet. Grandpa showed me how to do it. Maybe he can show you, too." My eyes fell to the floor. I started to chuckle. Suddenly, we were both laughing. For the first time in months, I felt happy. I hugged my precocious daughter before speaking again. "Yes, Grandpa can show us how. " "Grandpa says moving is an adventure, and I'm the Little Princess. He says you're his Princess too." "He did?" "He says this is the beginning of all of our tomorrows." She stopped talking for a moment, appearing to be deep in thought. "And he says fairytales can come true." "Really?" My father, the ogre, believed in fairytales and adventures. Maybe moving back home wasn't going to be so bad after all.   Recognized

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