CHAPTER 2
1457 Words
=The Interview=
If someone had told me a month ago that I’d be applying to play the role of a pretend mother for a stranger’s child, I’d have laughed and gone back to sorting mismatched socks for ten dollars an hour.
But desperation makes you creative.
And I was getting really creative.
The ad was buried between “need dog walker with CPR certification” and “rent-free room in exchange for spiritual counseling.” It was short—suspiciously so. Vague enough to set off alarm bells in my brain, yet strange enough to pique my curiosity.
Seeking a stand-in mom for family functions. You must be warm, friendly, and have a good rapport with children. Temporary role. Background check required. Discretion mandatory.
No names. No photos. No explanation.
Just… loneliness, barely veiled beneath formality.
So, I answered it.
Hello. I’m responding to your listing. I have experience working with children, a flexible schedule, and a strong ability to remain polite and smile through awkward situations. I also bake decent cookies, if that’s a perk. —L.
I read it three times before hitting “Send.”
And then I waited. Not expecting anything. I definitely do not expect a reply in less than two hours.
“Would you be available to meet tomorrow? 4 PM, Bean & Birch Café.”
No signature. Just that sterile, clipped tone again.
Of course, I said yes.
—
Now here I was, standing outside Bean & Birch Café like a contestant on a reality show I never signed up for. The place was too perfect—brick walls, ivy-covered signage, baristas with asymmetrical haircuts and ironic aprons. I tugged at the hem of my floral dress, suddenly regretting the orange-and-blue combination. It seemed like a bold, artsy choice this morning. Now it just screamed "distracted hippie."
I took a breath and pushed the door open.
Inside, it smelled like roasted almonds and overpriced espresso. It was loud, packed with people tapping away on laptops or murmuring over tiny pastries. My eyes scanned the tables until they landed on a man near the window—tall, square-jawed, still in navy blue scrubs. His sleeves were pushed up to reveal tanned forearms, and a hospital ID badge dangled from his breast pocket.
Marcus Sullivan. Had to be.
He looked tired. Not just sleep-deprived, but deeply, soul-weary tired—the kind of exhaustion that clings to people trying to hold everything together without letting anyone see the cracks.
I almost turned around right then.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I plastered on a smile and walked straight toward him.
“Dr. Sullivan?” I asked, removing my sunglasses and pushing them into my hair.
He stood, polite but wary. “Yes. You must be…?”
“Lyca. Like the constellation, not the wolf. Though I can snarl if necessary.” I extended a hand.
He blinked, clearly thrown off. Then, it shook it. “Right. Thanks for coming.”
We sat. An awkward silence settled between us. I could practically hear his brain analyzing everything—the dress, the hair, the crooked charm. He was trying to categorize me. Probably failing.
“I’m guessing this isn’t your typical Craigslist gig,” I said, smiling gently.
He exhaled, leaning back. “No. It’s… not.”
We stared at each other across the table. I noticed how his eyes flicked toward the window behind me every few seconds. Was he worried someone would recognize him? Maybe. He looked like the kind of guy who didn’t like being out of control.
“Okay,” I said, breaking the silence. “Let’s get the weird stuff out of the way. You’re not running a scam, right? No secret cult initiation? No hidden cameras for a twisted social experiment?”
His brow lifted, a ghost of a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth.
“Not unless you count kindergarten as a cult.”
“Debatable,” I said.
That earned a small chuckle.
I sipped the lukewarm coffee I’d ordered while waiting.
“So… this job. You want someone to pretend to be your daughter’s mom. At school functions. For what, exactly? Appearances? Your reputation?”
He hesitated, eyes narrowing. “For her.”
That stopped me. He wasn’t lying. His voice had that clipped, doctor-like tone again, but it was laced with something raw. Something personal.
“She’s five,” he said. "Her name is Lila. Her mother and I divorced two years ago. She doesn’t… participate in things. Family events, school projects. Lila had started making up stories about her. Imaginary details. Today, one of her classmates said she probably didn’t even have a mother.”
Oof.
I leaned back, suddenly feeling the weight behind his words.
“I missed most of Family Day today. She sat alone at a table for almost an hour. I got there in time to help her glue glitter onto a poster board rocket, but not in time to erase the memory of those empty chairs.”
His voice didn’t crack, but the silence that followed did.
“And what about her real mom?” I asked gently.
“She’s… in another world. Emotionally. Physically, she’s a ten-minute drive away, but for all it matters…”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
I nodded, understanding more than he probably knew.
“I’m not asking you to be her mother,” he said quickly. "Not really. I know how that sounds. This isn’t a fantasy I’m trying to sell. It’s just… a bandage. A temporary solution. A little make-believe so my daughter doesn’t feel forgotten.”
The word make-believe hit me harder than it should’ve.
I forced myself to stay steady. “Okay. What would this… performance entail?”
“School events. Family projects. A few appearances at kindergarten functions where the other parents are watching. No overnights. No co-parenting. Just enough to give Lila the illusion that she’s not the only kid without two people clapping for her in the audience.”
I let the silence stretch again.
This man-this surgeon, this stranger—was offering me a job pretending to be someone I had once wanted to be.
I wasn’t sure if it was tragic or poetic.
“Would I have to lie to her?” I asked.
“No,” he said firmly. “You’d be introduced as a friend helping out. If she wants to call you something else, that’s her choice. But I won’t ask you to deceive her.”
That mattered. More than I realized.
“Compensation?” I asked, even though I disliked the sound of it being transactional.
“Whatever’s fair,” he replied. “We can negotiate. I’ll cover transportation, wardrobe if needed, and background check costs.”
“Wow,” I said. “This is the most professionally structured fake parenting gig I’ve ever encountered.”
“Let’s hope it stays the only one,” he replied dryly.
That made me smile.
For a moment, I considered telling him the truth. That I wasn’t just quirky and between jobs. That my name hadn’t always been Lyca Morris. That I was once Eliza Monroe, disgraced former nonprofit manager turned pariah. That I hadn’t been able to hold a steady job since a scandal ruined my name—despite being innocent.
But something in me held me back.
His eyes were kind, but cautious. He wasn’t looking for baggage. He was looking for a solution.
And I needed this.
More than I’d ever admit.
So instead, I nodded. “Okay. You’ve got yourself a pretend mom.”
His shoulders eased just a little. “Thank you.”
“I have only two conditions.”
He blinked. “Go on.”
“One: I’m not wearing mom jeans.”
He almost smiled. “Deal.”
“Two: if this backfires, we both blame the glitter.”
That made him laugh. Not a small one, either—a real, full-bodied laugh that surprised even him.
For a split second, he looked younger. Softer.
I memorized it without meaning to.
As we stood to leave, he extended a hand again. This time, the grip was warmer. Familiar.
“Lila’s going to like you,” he said.
“I hope so,” I replied.
But as I stepped out into the early evening light, letting the door swing shut behind me, I felt something twist in my chest. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t regret.
It was something heavier.
Because pretending to be part of a family?
That was easy.
The hard part was remembering that it wasn’t real.
And already, something about the man in the café and the little girl with the lonely smile was starting to feel dangerously close to real.
>End of Chapter
- Writer
