You’d think that a simple thing like dropping your child off at a day care centre would be a simple thing. Well, it used to be. That was until I started talking to another parent each day. Natalie was her name. She was a solo mother with a daughter the same age as my son. I was a widower. My wife had died not long after Rory was born.
I found myself dropping off Rory each day at the exact time I knew that Natalie was dropping off her child. She worked for the City Council; some sort of secretarial job. I was self-employed. I researched genealogical documents for people who wanted to know their family tree but didn’t have the knowhow to do it themselves. They paid well too!
Natalie’s hours were flexible, as were mine. It didn’t matter if we dawdled a little when we dropped off our children. Eventually I asked her if she would like to go to lunch and she said “Yes”.
It was the start of something. That was sixteen years ago. My goodness me! What a two-timing double-crossing, selfish, catty, mean, sour hussy her daughter has turned out to be. I can’t wait for her to pack up and leave home. Of course I would never tell Natalie that. She’d go into revenge mode and I couldn’t guarantee my future would be safe. I mean, I’ve always suspected that a couple of years ago she was the one who poisoned Rory.