Balance of Fragile Things Read Online Free

wouldn’t have been right. But defending oneself, yes, that would be acceptable. The bell on the door jingled, and an old lady entered.
    â€œHi, Paul. How’s life treating ya?”
    â€œLiving the dream, Mrs. Carmichael, as always.” He gave her his million-dollar smile.
    Mrs. Carmichael, an octogenarian, walked around the convenience store, checking the expiration dates on each bottle of milk before pouring a small cup of coffee and topping it off with the freshest milk, which she then returned to the refrigerated section.
    â€œThat racket outside is going to raise the dead!”
    â€œYou’re telling me.” Paul stretched his arm out and looked at the foreman through the inch of space between his pointer finger and thumb. Then he squished the man in the distance.
    â€œOne day they’re going to dig too deep and find what they’re looking for.”
    â€œEh, what do you mean?”
    â€œOh, you know.” She slurped her hot coffee. “Every town keeps their secrets in the ground. You’ve heard the rumors about PMI, right?”
    Paul’s blank look said it all.
    â€œNever mind. Hey, am I going to win that trip to Mexico this week?”
    â€œGuaranteed—I see it in your future.”
    â€œDid your wife tell you that? Then it’d mean something. Otherwise, I’d think you just want a cut of my winnings!”
    Mrs. Carmichael placed the correct change on the counter, took a sip of her coffee, and tucked the scratchers in her purse. “Keep the change.”
    â€œHave a nice day.”
    â€œAll righty. See you next week, Mr. Singh.”
    Paul Singh knew two things: One, he would train his son to defend himself; and, two, he would find out if his psychic wife could see what was written on lottery tickets.

Maija
    E mpress of Multitasking, Goddess of Kitchen and Garden, Countess of Costco—in her mind, Maija Mazur Singh listed all the appropriate titles that she could stitch on her zip-up cardigan’s lapel. On this, her day off, she’d cooked, cleaned, and learned a few things—and it was only the afternoon, which meant she still had time to appraise her children’s secret lives before they returned from school.
    Maija had managed to concoct a beautiful sauerbraten and had even remembered to add a few extra peppercorns to quench Paul’s incessant need for spice. To Maija, it seemed he had long burned all the taste buds from his tongue, that the little buds had all waved their white flags after decades of interpreting the scorch of raw chili peppers. Paul claimed capsicum was good for his gums, and Maija wondered what good gums were when the tongue was collateral damage.
    She’d also baked an Alexander cake and glazed it to perfection. She’d vacuumed the house and even spent an hour watching Montel Williams’s self-help parenting program. Maija felt as if she could do it all, at least when she was the only one at home. The other inhabitants, her family, made getting things done difficult. No matter what she did or how hard she tried, she could not control everything; she was far from all-knowing, and she had not been blessed with strong parental communication skills. She had the sight, that was certain, but she rarely saw futures for her family, which was even more frustrating and led to her snooping. Instead of inquiring about Isabella’s female changes and Vic’s experiences at school, Maija held it in. Birds and bees remained bottled up, and they stung and ate each other. Since she couldn’t discuss these difficult topics, she was forced to infiltrate their personal things and read them like runes.
    Maija inspected the shoebox that she’d found tucked deep beneath Isabella’s bed. It was, of course, more than a box—it was a portal into Isabella’s brain, and Maija, mother of no words, parented as she mushroomed: once in a while and when no one was looking. She told herself it was out of