Page 36 of Obsessed by My Ex's Mafia Uncle

Chapter Six

Christine

“Blue, if you don’t eat that, I swear I will eat it for you,” Aisha threatens playfully.

“I’m not hungry,” Blue fusses, as expected of a three-year-old, her words slightly tangled, not fully pronounced.

“You said that yesterday, and then you cried in the car because your tummy hurt,” Aisha presses, her voice soft, patient, because of course, Aunty Aisha can never be anything but sweet to her baby Blue.

“I wasn’t crying,” Blue retorts.

“You were wailing, baby,” Aisha teases.

“I don’t wail.”

I roll my eyes, but I don’t turn yet.

I don’t need to because from here, I can hear the look Aisha is giving her from the kitchen, that are-you-serious look she does with one brow slightly raised, lips pressed together like she’s fighting a smile.

I’m halfway into my blouse, one arm in, the other still hanging uselessly as I try to button it without wrinkling it.

The mirror in the living room catches me mid-motion, my hair still loose and makeup only half done, the kind of morning that started ten minutes late and never recovered.

“Blue,” I call out, stepping into my heels and immediately stepping out of them again because I almost twist my ankle, “Eat your breakfast.”

“I am eating it!” She shouts back.

“She’s not eating it,” Aisha mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.

I walk into the kitchen and pause.

Because this… This is my favorite part.

The kitchen, smelling like syrup and something slightly toasted with morning light spilling in through the wide window above the sink, catching on everything it touches: the white cabinets, the soft stainless handles, and the faint mess we didn’t clean up from last night.

A cereal box sits open on the counter, a cup abandoned beside it, a tiny spill of milk already drying into a thin film.

Aisha is standing by the counter, brown curls piled high and already escaping in soft, wild loops around her face. She’s in an oversized white shirt tucked lazily into a pair of soft brown shorts, the fabric loose around her thighs.

Her skin glows in that effortless way she hates being complimented for, and her brown eyes are locked on Blue like she’s in a full negotiation with a tiny, very stubborn CEO.

Blue sits at the table, legs swinging, she's wearing a yellow dress with tiny sunflowers printed all over it, one strap slightly twisted, the hem riding up on one side like she dressed herself and refused help.

Her hair is in two slightly uneven puffs I did myself this morning. One is fuller than the other. She insisted it was fine.

It’s not fine. But she’s smiling.

So I let it go.

“There she is,” Aisha throws, glancing at me. “The woman of the hour.”

“Don’t start,” I mumble, reaching for my coffee like it might save me.

“Oh, I’m starting,” she teases, sliding a plate slightly closer to Blue. “Because today is a big day, and you are already behind schedule.”

“I’m not behind,” I lie, taking a sip.

“You are behind,” she stamps. “And your daughter is refusing to eat, which is not helping your case.”