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

Fiza’s fist flew to her mouth, pressing against her lips. Her shoulders shook.

Anxiety washed through Tara. ‘Are you all right?’

She nodded wordlessly, then drew in some deep breaths. ‘I want this chance for Amal very much. But I work shifts at the hospital.’

Tara didn’t follow. ‘And?’

‘When I start at seven, Amal takes the twins to school. When I start at one, he brings them home. If I work on the weekends, he is home with them.’

Tara opened her mouth to ask if there was anyone else who could help and closed it, knowing it was a stupid question. Fiza wanted Amal to work so if there was anyone who could help out, she’d have mentioned them. She thought about the conversation she and Jon had when the children were born and their purchase of life insurance so if one of them died there would be money to employ a nanny-cum-housekeeper to look after Flynn and Clementine. Fiza didn’t have that option.

Tara wondered how many seventeen-year-old boys needed to help their younger siblings get ready for school or look after them at the end of the day. The parents of teenagers she knew complained about how hard it was to get them off their devices and out of their rooms, let alone give up their time to be a stand-in parent. Not only did Amal lack a network of people to recommend him, he was being denied the chance of a job because for his family to function they needed him at home.

‘Perhaps we can help?’

Take it back! You have enough to do already.

But she kept talking. ‘November and December will be crazy months, but we can try to roster him around your weekends and afternoon shifts. And if that gets too difficult, I’m sure the twins could come here occasionally until he gets home from work. That’s if you’re okay with Ian minding them with Flynn and Clementine. He says having the twins over is easier than minding my kids on their own.’

Fiza sat perfectly still—striking and proud. Tara suddenly regretted putting herself out there only to be rejected.

Fiza’s chin rose. ‘I can only accept this if you allow me to help you with your children on my days off.’

‘That’s not really nec—’

‘It is.’ The words rang with self-respect.

Tara remembered Helen saying that when a crisis hits, it’s never the people you expect who step up. And wasn’t this the perfect example. Fiza was offering help from her precious and limited time and inferring that without Tara’s acceptance she may not allow Amal to work. Even though she’d confessed how dearly she wanted him to have the job.

Did she consider Tara’s offer pity? Pity is useless. Now, knowing what Fiza had been through, that statement was even more remarkable.

So why are you vacillating? Who else has brought you a casserole? Other than Ian, who else is offering to help you? Accept a gift from one working woman to another.

Feeling buffeted yet again by the winds of change Tara said, ‘Thank you. My kids would love that.’

‘So it is settled?’

‘Almost.’ Tara smiled. ‘This time I have a favour to ask you. Jon wants to offer Amal the job himself. Can you ask him to come to the store one night after school this week?’

‘I will bring him myself. I will tell him I need tomato stakes.’ An earnest expression crossed her face. ‘This is true.’

Tara laughed. ‘I’m sure we can organise some stakes. When you arrive, ask for Jon. He’ll give Amal a tour of the store first so he understands what’s involved. He may not want the job.’

‘I know my son.’ Fiza’s smile—so often restrained—broke across her face. ‘He will want it with both of his hands.’

CHAPTER

31

After Fiza left, Tara told the children that between now and Christmas there would be play dates with the twins at Tingledale and at the Atallahs’ house. Flynn hugged her as hard as if she’d given him the new bike he wanted.

‘Can I get my hair braided with beads like Leila?’ Clemmie asked.

Tara ran her fingers through her daughter’s fine silky hair, so very different from Leila’s wiry strands, and knew it lacked the body for box braids. ‘I don’t have any beads. How about I do a French braid with a ribbon woven through it?’

‘Okay. But then can we buy some beads?’

‘Perhaps. Now into bed.’

She cuddled up in a Clemmie and Flynn sandwich, reading them one of her childhood favourites, Fantastic Mr Fox.

‘Sleep tight, munchkins.’

As Jon was out, she poured herself a glass of wine. She knew he didn’t begrudge her a drink, but in an act of solidarity she’d decided not to drink in front of him. Not that she was sneaking off to drink either. It turned out that giving up alcohol wasn’t as hard as she’d imagined. They were working their way through a list of mocktails, surprised they weren’t sickly sweet but refreshing and enjoyable.

Unable to settle on reading or television, she took herself outside and curled up in a chair to watch a dinner-plate moon rising in an aluminium sky. Her muscles twitched. It would be an awesome night for a run. But her crazy days of sneaking out to run with Zac were thankfully over. She’d barely sipped the local pinot gris when she heard the crunch of gravel and the familiar low hum of Jon’s car. She checked the time, surprised he was home an hour earlier than expected. Oh, God. Was he sick?

Don’t catastrophise.

Her hands gripped the arms of her chair, keeping her seated. If she rushed to meet him, he’d correctly interpret it as worry. She drew in some deep breaths, trying to channel calm, until she heard the glass door slide open and his heavy footfalls on the deck.

‘Hey.’ He dropped a kiss on the top of her head and squeezed her shoulder.

‘Hey.’ She raised her hand and touched his, aware that before his diagnosis she’d associated this familiar non-sexual kiss with him keeping her at