Free Don't Let Go by Sharla Lovelace

that? Do we have to fight?” Her gaze landed on my jeans. “Did you go to work today?”
    I closed my eyes and sucked my readied comment back in. “Yes, I did. Hi, Bec. How was your day?”
    “I passed my government test.”
    I stared at her. “There was really a test? Wonderful!” I said, grabbing the shredded cheese. “Sounds like a good day.”
    “Yeah, well, until Jill Bartlett decided to be a douche,” she said, her shoulders slouching a little.
    I glanced up. “And why is that?”
    Becca shrugged and did the scrunch-up thing with her face that said the subject was about to be done. “Nothing. It was stupid.”
    “So tell me.”
    “I did tell you,” she said, widening her eyes without meeting mine. She grabbed a plate from the cabinet and started building her nachos. “It was nothing.”
    “Nothing enough to mess up your day?” I asked, attempting another angle.
    “Whatever, Mom, can we just eat?” she said, clearly done. And irritated.
    “Yeah, whatever .” I blew out a breath. “You bring it up and then get mad at me for it.” I pulled the sour cream container from the fridge. “I swear, baby, you make me want to bang my head on the wall sometimes.”
    “Ditto,” she muttered.
    Well, so much for the relaxing girls’ night at home. I tried again in the living room.
    “Grab the TV trays and we’ll see what’s on.”
    She stared at me as if I’d grown horns. “We’re eating junk food—and eating it in the living room?”
    “Good Lord,” I muttered, grabbing the trays myself. “You’d think it was the first time ever.”
    “First time in Nonnie’s house,” Becca said, setting her plate on a tray and settling herself on the couch next to me as Harley jumped up on the other side of her and stared. “We did it sometimes at the blue house, but never here.”
    I looked at her. “That’s crazy, Bec, that was four years ago.”
    She held up her hands. “Just saying.” She scratched Harley’s chin. “I’ll save you some,” she whispered as Harley’s tail thumped.
    I frowned, thinking about it, wondering if she was right. We did have a more casual lifestyle in the old house she called the blue house. Hayden and I had leased it early in our marriage when it was painted a hunter green. He never liked it and painted it a sickly beige a few years later. When we divorced, I got the house, and one of my first actions as a single woman was to paint it whatever color Becca wanted. Thank God, her favorite color was blue.
    When my mother died and left us this house, I thought it made sense to move here and sell our smaller one. I’d second-guessed that decision a hundred times or more since then. Especially when I’d hear Becca refer to it as belonging to my mother, or Nonnie, as she called her. Very seldom did she refer to it as our house.
    “Well, this doesn’t hurt anything,” I said, turning on the TV and attempting to make light of it. “Give the table a break for the night.”
    I flipped through the on-screen guide as we ate, hoping I wouldn’t have to resort to SyFy but willing to just to keep her there. Finally, I landed on a romantic comedy she’d liked when she was younger. “Yes?” I asked.
    Her shrug was the best I was going to get, but the genuine laughs that came later were proof I’d chosen well. Becca’s two major appendages, her phone and her journal, rested by her side, and every now and then she’d scribble something down or smile at a text. I couldn’t help feeling a pang of envy toward whoever was pulling that reaction from her.
    I remembered her being attached to my hip when she was little, always wanting to lay in my lap to watch TV, begging me to play with her hair. I missed those days.
    I leaned sideways to bump heads with her. “Loves, baby girl,” I said during a commercial break.
    “Loves,” she said, pulling the afghan from the top of the couch behind her and half curling into it as she leaned against me.
    “You know, I’m going to miss this