He looked frantic. His voice dripped with guilt.
"How's Moira? This is all my fault. My phone was off last night—I never got the calls."
"You've been up all night. You must be exhausted. Go get some rest. Fiona and I can watch her."
But whether he truly never got those calls or chose to ignore them—I knew the answer better than he did.
My daughter was my bottom line.
I looked at Reginald, and whatever softness he'd managed to coax out of me was gone. Every wall snapped back into place, every thorn pointed outward. My voice came out cold as steel.
"No need. My daughter is mine to take care of."
"We're done."
I've always been a woman of my word.
When I said it was over with Reginald, I meant it. I blocked his number, his social media—every way he had of reaching me.
He resorted to showing up at my cart to buy breakfast burritos just to get a chance to talk.
The morning crowd pressed in on all sides. He opened his mouth, struggled, his face reddening.
"Fiona and I—it's not what you think."
I didn't look up. I finished making his order and held it out to him.
"What does that have to do with me?"
He stood there, frozen, for several seconds.