Unexpected Eva (Triple Trouble #3)(3)

Not caring who won the item, I remain facing toward the stage area and softly clap.

I zone out, daydreaming.

Every year my little Scottish hometown hosts this charity auction in aid of the local children’s hospital, Lily’s, which supports children with life-shortening illnesses.

I love everything the auction stands for, its purpose and the incredible cause the money raised goes toward, but I miss being at home snuggled up with my sons.

A smile breaks free from my lips momentarily at the thought of them. Hamish and Archie. I thank my lucky stars and feel a wave of gratefulness; they are both happy and healthy.

They’ve both gotten so big this past year. Archie, who’s seven, is going to be tall, just like his daddy, but with ice-blond hair like me when I was younger. He’s shot up another three inches in height, and I’ve yet again had to restock his wardrobe.

Archie’s a cocksure little lad, an infuriating little monkey at times. He knows what he wants, and he knows exactly how to get it. Negotiating and bartering are Archie’s strengths. That’s where my weakness lies, and he knows it. It’s exhausting. I reckon he’s going to be on the debating team at school someday. I can feel it. God help us all. Although he could maybe help me argue a case to pass a law for all upcoming divorcing moms to receive six months off, like a sabbatical, but paid to give us time to reevaluate our lives and heal.

I need that.

Then there’s my little Hamish. He’s my darling three-year-old boy who’s utterly adorable, loveable, and playful. He giggles endlessly and smothers me in kisses daily. He’s a mirror image of his father—dark-haired with big brown eyes. He loves playing in the mud and would eat worms for breakfast if he could. No matter how hard I try to dress him, he won’t have any of it. He's fiercely independent and thinks he knows best when it comes to dressing himself.

I failed to stifle my giggles when he ventured down the stairs the other morning, not dressed in the outfit I laid out for him, but dressed in a pair of frog-green rubber boots on the wrong feet, red shorts on back to front, a bright-yellow sweater, and to complete the look, a pair of swimming goggles, and matching blue-and-orange swimming float. He wore it proudly, like he was modeling the finest waistcoat. Classic Hamish and oh so beautifully innocent. My boy.

There is no way I would have survived the last twelve months without their distraction, their love, and their cuddles. My two boys are my everything.

Although I’m not sure I’ve been the best mom, struggling to keep my frustration and tiredness levels hidden. Snippy and shouty is what Archie has started to call me. I thought it would make a good name for a cartoon show. When I suggested that to Archie, he rolled his eyes, informing me how uncool I am.

Since my husband, Ewan, and I agreed to separate—well, I asked him to move out and then finally persuaded him we should divorce—I've been a cranky bitch.

My sisters can vouch for that too. I wasn’t exactly myself earlier this year when Ella and Fraser, her husband to be, needed me. I was selfish and self-centered in their time of need. I have apologized profusely. Fraser understood and explained how divorce can make you feel and act out of character. He gets it. And Ella being Ella, she was forgiving and loves me unconditionally. It’s just as well because I have needed them more than ever recently.

I’ve also been helping Eden and Hunter out with their new triplet baby boys too. Mainly out of guilt to show my sisters I am here for them and truly sorry for my recently mood swings. Separation and divorce has brought out the worst in me at times. But I’m trying to be more level-headed. As time has gone by I seem to be getting my moods under control and no longer feel like I’m on an emotional roller coaster

I’m still mad though.

Mad at myself.

Mad as a hatter at myself for not spotting Ewan’s need for help with his alcohol dependency earlier. And mad at myself for not being able to save our marriage.

I failed.

Failed at marriage.

Failed to keep our little family together.

Filing for divorce at twenty-eight years old, a broken marriage under my belt before the age of thirty, was never a future goal for me. I’m high up the failed marriages leaderboard. Score.

Now it’s just me and my two boys, and even though I feel disappointed at myself that I couldn’t make my marriage work, for the first time in a long time I feel happy. I’d almost forgotten what that felt like.

My mom said I should give myself a pat on the back.

I survived separation; I survived the lawyer meetings; I survived Ewan flipping out when I produced our divorce papers. He’s still yet to sign them, but I survived.

I made it.

I did also shed an ocean of tears.

For losing my childhood friend.

Said farewell to our love.

Waved goodbye to our marriage.

But it made me question everything once we finally separated.

I’m not sure we were ever as tight as I thought we were.

Within three weeks of us separating, Ewan found someone new and started dating Ruby Thomas from five doors down the street.

Was he loyal and faithful to me?

Were they together before? With us living so close together?

Probably. I may never know, and I’m too proud to ask Ewan. I actually don’t want to know if he cheated on me. That would be a step too far for me after he broke my heart the way he did.

Maybe that’s why he stopped having sex with me. He was getting it from someone else. Or maybe it was the alcohol. Because he always chose that over me and our boys.