With Love from the Inside Read Online Free Page A
Author: Angela Pisel
as he was good-looking.
Still, Sophie knew things Thomas would never know. Disgusting, never-discussed things, like the wrenching smell of feces and the shape it takes when rubbed on a dingy prison wall. Images a child should be protected fromâthose were the images that formed the backdrop of Sophieâs last memories of her mom.
Thomasâs Ivy League education had prepared him for many things, but Sophieâs real life had taught her lessons you couldnât pay to learn. His childhood had consisted of playdates and lacrosse games, while her Saturdays in high school had been spent taking the bus back and forth to visit her mother. She was never sure whether she visited because of obligation or loneliness, but every Saturday, while other teenage girls were trying on prom dresses or squeezing into bikinis at the mall, she boarded the bus, robotically paid her fare, and stayed with her mom as long as prison visiting hours would allowâuntil one Saturday she didnât anymore.
Marrying Thomas had given her a fresh start, a clean slate. One that could be written on with the words of a life she was supposed to have, deserved to have. No one, sheâd decided, would ever know her shame, or the scandal that had ripped apart a little girlâs fairy tale.
Sophie hadnât consciously decided to fake her way into a more privileged world. Her fate had happened to her, set in motion the day Thomas walked into the Starbucks where she was working to pay her way through grad school. Her dadâs life insurance had covered college and some of her current classes, but paying for an apartment and food was another thing. Her green employee apron, stained with God knew what, had been what she was wearing when she met her future husband. He would tell her a few months later that it was crazy love at first sight. For Sophie, it was like a dream come true. His dark, wavy hair and pin-striped blue-and-white Ralph Lauren dress shirt, tucked into perfectly pressed khakis, had signaled he was out of her league. She hadnât dated much, but the guys in her life didnât come in looking like Thomas or ride out driving the kind of car he did. She couldnât believe it when he asked her out two weeks and seven lattes later.
Now green aprons, taking orders, and listening to people complain about their coffee were a thing of the past. She was the wife of Dr. Thomas Logan and the daughter of no one.
â
T HOMAS CONSULTED WITH THE NURSES ON DUTY while Sophie searched the hallway for Mindy. âHey,â she said, when Mindy finally appeared from behind a pile of charts on the unit secretaryâs desk. âYou have a second to talk?â
âI will as soon as Iâm finished drawing my meds.â Mindy looked out of order and her flat-ironed hair seemed even more worn. Chunks had started to rebel and wave in the wrong direction around her rounded face. âI know someone who has time for you,â Mindy said, as she pulled a rubber band off of her wrist and corralled her red hair (paprika red, as Mindy described it: âMy stupid hair looks like a garnishment on a damn deviled eggâ). She tied it off in a French knot, then pointed to the room located directly in front of the nursesâ station. âHeâs been asking for you.â
Maxâs face lit up when Sophie walked into his room.
Sesame Street
was just ending on TV. She reached for the remote, which was sitting on the table next to his bed, and turned it off before public television forced Max to watch some French chef make chocolate soufflé with a twist of rum.
Max, who had just turned three, still needed the rails of the bed up when he was unsupervised. Sophie lowered one and sat on the edge of the mattress beside her favorite hospital resident. âHey, little man. How are you doing today?â
Max placed his index finger over his throat to cover the surgically created hole from a tracheostomy and with a raspy
Still, Sophie knew things Thomas would never know. Disgusting, never-discussed things, like the wrenching smell of feces and the shape it takes when rubbed on a dingy prison wall. Images a child should be protected fromâthose were the images that formed the backdrop of Sophieâs last memories of her mom.
Thomasâs Ivy League education had prepared him for many things, but Sophieâs real life had taught her lessons you couldnât pay to learn. His childhood had consisted of playdates and lacrosse games, while her Saturdays in high school had been spent taking the bus back and forth to visit her mother. She was never sure whether she visited because of obligation or loneliness, but every Saturday, while other teenage girls were trying on prom dresses or squeezing into bikinis at the mall, she boarded the bus, robotically paid her fare, and stayed with her mom as long as prison visiting hours would allowâuntil one Saturday she didnât anymore.
Marrying Thomas had given her a fresh start, a clean slate. One that could be written on with the words of a life she was supposed to have, deserved to have. No one, sheâd decided, would ever know her shame, or the scandal that had ripped apart a little girlâs fairy tale.
Sophie hadnât consciously decided to fake her way into a more privileged world. Her fate had happened to her, set in motion the day Thomas walked into the Starbucks where she was working to pay her way through grad school. Her dadâs life insurance had covered college and some of her current classes, but paying for an apartment and food was another thing. Her green employee apron, stained with God knew what, had been what she was wearing when she met her future husband. He would tell her a few months later that it was crazy love at first sight. For Sophie, it was like a dream come true. His dark, wavy hair and pin-striped blue-and-white Ralph Lauren dress shirt, tucked into perfectly pressed khakis, had signaled he was out of her league. She hadnât dated much, but the guys in her life didnât come in looking like Thomas or ride out driving the kind of car he did. She couldnât believe it when he asked her out two weeks and seven lattes later.
Now green aprons, taking orders, and listening to people complain about their coffee were a thing of the past. She was the wife of Dr. Thomas Logan and the daughter of no one.
â
T HOMAS CONSULTED WITH THE NURSES ON DUTY while Sophie searched the hallway for Mindy. âHey,â she said, when Mindy finally appeared from behind a pile of charts on the unit secretaryâs desk. âYou have a second to talk?â
âI will as soon as Iâm finished drawing my meds.â Mindy looked out of order and her flat-ironed hair seemed even more worn. Chunks had started to rebel and wave in the wrong direction around her rounded face. âI know someone who has time for you,â Mindy said, as she pulled a rubber band off of her wrist and corralled her red hair (paprika red, as Mindy described it: âMy stupid hair looks like a garnishment on a damn deviled eggâ). She tied it off in a French knot, then pointed to the room located directly in front of the nursesâ station. âHeâs been asking for you.â
Maxâs face lit up when Sophie walked into his room.
Sesame Street
was just ending on TV. She reached for the remote, which was sitting on the table next to his bed, and turned it off before public television forced Max to watch some French chef make chocolate soufflé with a twist of rum.
Max, who had just turned three, still needed the rails of the bed up when he was unsupervised. Sophie lowered one and sat on the edge of the mattress beside her favorite hospital resident. âHey, little man. How are you doing today?â
Max placed his index finger over his throat to cover the surgically created hole from a tracheostomy and with a raspy
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