Poles Apart (SAMPLE ONLY!)

Chapter 2

Copyright Kirsty Moseley 2014. All rights reserved. 

Chapter Two

In the morning, I woke to the sound of cooing and the covers being gently pulled near my feet. When I opened my eyes, they stung so much I actually hissed through my teeth. My gaze settled on the clock, seeing it was just after six-thirty. This was the downside of working nights in a club: the getting up in the morning with your almost two-year-old after having around four hours sleep.

Pushing myself up, I crawled to the foot of my bed, looking at the best thing I’d ever done. She was sitting up in her cot, her big blue eyes just looking at me, a beautiful smile around her dummy she had in her mouth.

“Hey, Sasha,” I whispered, sticking my hand through the bars.

She smiled and took the dummy out of her mouth, placing it in my hand, still smiling. “Mummy, up, up!”

I smiled at her latest attempts to speak. It was so cute and every word melted my heart. “Want to get up, Sash?” I asked, sitting up and rubbing a hand over my face. She pushed herself to her feet, standing at the bars, her arms outstretched. I smiled and plucked her out of the cot, sitting her on the bed next to me. “Hungry?”

She didn’t answer, just pushed herself up, climbing over me and plopping down onto the floor, looking at me expectantly. “No,” she stated confidently.

“Drink?”

“No.” She shook her head, turning to walk out of my bedroom. We shared my bedroom because this was only a two-bed flat and Rory (being a fifteen-year-old doing his GCSEs soon) needed his own space, so she’d moved in here with me when he came to live with us.

“Can’t you say something else?” I teased, grinning.

“No.”

I laughed and followed her out of the room, grabbing a nappy and baby wipes on the way past. Sasha was just learning how to speak. She was a little under two years old; her birthday was in two months. She knew about fifteen words which were understandable to a stranger, but her favourite, by far, was ‘no’.

I scooped her into my arms as we approached Rory’s bedroom door, heading past quickly so she didn’t bang and wake him up. There was no point in both of us being awake at stupid o’clock on a Sunday morning. After changing her nappy, we settled onto the floor to play dolls for a little while before I made breakfast. I had money to go shopping today so there was no need to just eat cereal this morning. I boiled two of the four eggs, leaving two for Rory.

While Sasha and I were sitting at the table, Rory graced us with his presence, stretching like a cat and yawning as he walked up the hallway. “Morning,” I greeted, smiling at his dishevelled appearance. He was still in yesterday’s clothes he’d fallen asleep in.

He grunted in response. Rory wasn’t a morning person.

“Raw-ee!” Sasha cried, holding out her arms for him. She adored him. He was more like a dad than a teenage uncle. I was lucky to have him.

Three years ago, when my parents kicked me out of the house, Rory was the only one who stuck up for me. Then, when I got pregnant a few months later, my parents disowned me even more, if that were possible. From what Rory had told me, when they found out I was pregnant at sixteen, they took down every single picture of me and literally pretended they didn’t ever have a daughter. It didn’t surprise me, though; I had always been a disappointment to them, even before everything that happened. I was a disappointment to them from the day I was born, it seemed.