Do you see that woman holding a foreclosure notice in her hand and a screaming toddler at her feet?
She doesn’t look happy, does she?
Spoiler alert: she’s not.
And it has nothing to do with the peanut butter and jelly sandwich she found in her couch cushions this morning, or that fact that her kid’s favorite words is c$.
I’ll let you put the letters with the rest of that word, but, to fully to understand my frustration, you have to go back two weeks.
That’s when my husband of six years died of a heart attack. And I’m not sad about it. Before you go thinking I’m an emotionless shit, understand that I was sad.
Was being the key word. You see, dear friends, in those fifteen days since my husband died, I’ve met his girlfriend, who’s befriended me and to top it all off, it turns out, infidelity wasn’t the only thing he’s guilty of. He hadn’t paid our bills in four months. Now I’m forced to rent out the room above our garage.
But there’s a hitch.
The guy that rents it?
My one-night stand from the night I found out my deceased husband had been cheating on me.
The problem?
He’s a college baseball player. And let me tell you, sister. Cason Reins, his name should come with a surgeon general warning. He’s everything I don’t need in my life. Not only does he walk around shirtless, have a dirty mind, that’s not the worst part.
What is it, you ask? Other than him befriending my toddler?
He knows how to throw a curve ball. He wants to… gulp. Date. Me.
Now what the hell am I supposed to do?

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