Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
“No,” I say as doubt begins to creep into my head. “I am enough for this moment.”
I take a long, deep breath and blow it out slowly. All the while, I silently repeat the mantra that has gotten me over every hurdle of adulthood.
The setting sun’s rays filter through the bay window overlooking the backyard, filling my living room with the prettiest glow. It’s exactly as I imagined it when I first saw the house with a real estate agent a few months ago. As soon as I turned the corner from the foyer and cast my sights on this space, I knew it was special. I felt it in my bones.
And I was right.
I wake up inspired. When I come home from the Canoodle offices, a sense of peace spreads over me like a warm rain. I paint with joy, create with heart—living the life that baby Gianna dreamed for herself … in my very own house.
The only thing I ever wanted was to be a homeowner. It was an odd goal for an eight-year-old and definitely earned raised eyebrows a time or two. In second grade, my teacher instructed us to write our Christmas List for Santa Claus. I wrote boldly, in all caps instead of script, just in case Santa struggled with cursive, too, that I wanted a house of my own.
Instead, I got to have lunch with our school counselor to ensure things were okay at home with my family.
“Yup,” I said, squirting the sauce packet onto the pizza crust from my Lunchables. “Our house is just boring. We can’t paint the walls or hang up my art or use glitter. I want to have my own house and live there forever and make it beautiful.” I sprinkled the cheese on top of my makeshift pizza. “And I’m definitely not using doilies.”
A warm pressure builds in my chest at the memory, and a sense of gratitude settles over me. “I did it. All by myself.”
And that is the best part of it all. I did it alone. The girl who didn’t see the harm in doing things her own way or why that was so humiliating to her parents made it on her own.
“Hey, sissy!” Lucia’s voice echoes through the foyer. “I’m here, and I come bearing gifts.”
I smile, lifting my gaze to meet hers as she rounds the corner. Her dimples settle in as she grins at me.
“Well, gift,” she says, laughing. “I come bearing a gift. But one is better than none.” She proudly holds up a jar. “This is Matilda.”
“That’s my gift?”
“Yes,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“Ah, you shouldn’t have.”
She steps over a canvas and mounds of buttons, then thrusts the jar into my hands. “Be nice. You’ll hurt Matilda’s feelings, and then she won’t grow. You’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”
I turn the glass container in my palms and take in the … pancake batter?
“It’s sourdough starter,” she says, sliding out of her bright red heels. “I made her. Well, I actually got her mother, Monica, from my neighbor a few months ago. But I’ve kept her alive. And, in return for my impeccable mothering, Monica has produced many, many loaves of amazing sourdough bread. And bagels! You can make bagels with Matilda, too.”
“You gave me sourdough starter?” I ask, unable to keep the giggle out of my voice. “And to think that I was expecting a bottle of wine or the number of that hottie you work with.”
“Oh, this is much better than wine—and that hottie is engaged. Sadly.” She plops down beside me. “Have you ever smelled freshly baked bread? If someone could figure out how to bottle that scent, I’d wear it every damn day.”
I snort. “That’s one way to get eaten.”
She laughs, shaking her head at me. “Anyway, I emailed you instructions on how to care for Matilda. I have high hopes that she’ll be as delicious for you as Monica is for me. It’s a game-changer, really. Once you get good at it, you can add in olives and onions and cheese—all kinds of stuff.”
I peer into the jar at the glob of beige bubbles. There’s not a chance in the world that I’m going to become a sourdough mom. But this gift, as off-the-wall as it appears, is really the most me-coded thing she could’ve given me. It’s an acknowledgment of my homeowning dreams without making it weird. Lucia knows I hate it when things are sappy.
“Thank you for this,” I say, setting the jar on the coffee table. “I’ll do my best not to kill it.”
“Her, Gianna. Do not. Kill her.”
“Right. Her.” Lucia has issues. My attention whips back to the bubbling gunk as a thought rushes to the forefront of my brain. “Wait. Is it actually alive?”
“Yes, it’s alive.”
“Oh.”
“Read the email. I explained it all there.” She sighs and tucks her feet under her. “I’m starving. What are we doing about dinner?”