A Home Like Ours Fiona Lowe (good novels to read .txt) 📖

with the anticipation of a battle. ‘He has to at least appear to show both sides of an argument. Even if your letter’s the only one that’s pro tiny housing, it’s a start.’

Ideas started popping. She’d ask Roxy and the other women if they’d be prepared to write a letter to the paper. Ask Bob.

‘From little things big things grow, right?’

Vivian rolled her eyes. ‘Personally, I’m not a fan of aphorisms.’

Neither was Helen but somehow this one felt right.

Thursday was the day in the week Jade looked forward to and enjoyed the most. The Hazara women worked in the garden and before they left for their English class they always insisted Jade share their lunch. They never accepted her offer of a vegemite or a peanut butter sandwich and at first their refusal didn’t bother her, because the food she packed was for Milo. One of her strategies to make her money last two weeks was eating a big breakfast and skipping lunch. But as the women kept insisting she eat their food, it was making her uncomfortable. Last week, she’d deliberately gone home before lunch to avoid spending half an hour feeling bad about sponging food or upsetting them. Except instead of feeling better, she’d felt irritable and cranky all afternoon. And tired. So very tired.

Milo hadn’t slept through the night in over a week and he was fractious and chewing everything in sight. He cried when he was held and he cried when he was put down. Why did cutting teeth burn the skin on his bum red as well as his gums?

When he’d refused to have an afternoon nap, she’d stood at the door of his room and yelled, ‘Just shut up! Go to sleep!’

He’d gone silent for a second, his face startled at the unfamiliar screeching sounds coming from her mouth. Then his big blue eyes had filled with tears and he’d sobbed, his little body shaking as hard as if she’d struck him.

Jade’s heart had spasmed, twisting in her chest and pumping out a cocktail of guilt, anger at herself and utter despair. But the taunting chaser was worse—You’re just like Charlene.

‘I’m bloody not!’ She’d scooped up Milo and hugged him close, her tears dampening his curls. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

She was desperate to talk to someone and receive confirmation that she was nothing like her mother. But she didn’t have any friends in this hole of a town and no one knew her mother, except Corey. He hated Charlene more than Jade did—although that was hard to imagine. When Milo was born, he’d said, ‘You better treat this kid better than our mothers treated us.’ Jade hadn’t needed to be told—she’d spent the previous six months promising her unborn baby the same thing. And Corey knew she was a better mother—he’d seen how much love and care she gave Milo. He’d tell her she was nothing like Charlene.

She opened a text and typed out what had just happened, but with each word, doubt crept in. Would Corey really understand how hard it was being at home with a baby all day, every day? It wasn’t like he ever spent any time alone with Milo. He wasn’t so tired that he nodded off in the laundromat and woke up terrified someone had stolen Milo. He wasn’t holding a crying baby for hours on end and finding it hard to pee on his own, let alone take a shower.

A hot rod of indignation slid in, straightening her spine. If Corey was here helping her, she wouldn’t be yelling at their baby! If the Hazara women had eaten her sandwiches, she’d have stayed for lunch and they’d be cuddling Milo and she wouldn’t have yelled at him. None of this was her fault!

You don’t like vegemite sandwiches so why should they?

The thought burned as she stabbed the backspace key, deleting the text. She shoved the phone in her shorts’ pocket, bundled Milo into the pram and walked to the library.

‘Hey, Fran, what’s something easy to cook but tastes good and I can take to a picnic?’

‘Why don’t you look at taste-dot-com? Ignore the over-the-top fiddly stuff and go for something simple like marinated chicken or club sandwiches.’

Jade didn’t know what a club sandwich was. As sandwiches were the problem, she checked out the chicken. Instead of buying her weekly treat—a Vodka Cruiser—she bought chicken drumettes and marinated them in soy sauce, honey, garlic and ginger. Bob gave her the garlic and Helen donated coriander, then suggested sprinkling sesame seeds over the chicken. She also gave her some ginger. Jade couldn’t believe that an ugly root had such a beautiful and perfumed flower.

Now was the moment of truth and Jade held her breath, keeping her eyes on the women.

Kubra licked her fingers. ‘This is very good.’

‘Really? You like it?’ Jade struggled to believe the compliment.

‘Yes. You very good cook.’

‘Not really. I just followed the recipe.’

‘That’s how we all start,’ Helen said. ‘The only difference between a good cook and an average one is interest and learning from disasters.’

And money. Jade couldn’t afford any disasters if it meant throwing out food.

‘Kubra, do you have a recipe for your bolanis?’ she asked. ‘I’d like to try and make them.’

‘My mother teach me. Come to my flat and I show you.’

‘Yeah?’

Corey will have a fit.

Corey doesn’t need to know.

‘That would be awesome.’

As the conversation ebbed and flowed, Jade glanced at Helen, who was quiet today—even her magenta tips drooped. Helen didn’t boss the women around like she bossed Jade and usually she asked them all sorts of questions as if she was really interested. But ever since she’d got all bent out of shape over that newspaper article and yelled at Bob—Jade still hadn’t forgiven her for that—she seemed different.

Jade had asked Bob what her problem was and he’d said, ‘It’s Helen’s story to tell.’ But Jade wasn’t asking Helen. If she did, Helen would yell at her too and tell her it was none