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She doesn’t have to do this alone.
Amanda Holbrook is finally moving into her new place and preparing for her baby’s birth, but her plans are upended when Bill’s lawyers send a threatening message trying to get her to move to Colorado as soon as possible.
To make matters worse, the new CNA Amanda hired isn’t able to accomplish the simplest of tasks without asking for Amanda’s help, and Dad wants her to bring him to Hector’s old church for a few weeks to complete his current step of the Alcoholics Anonymous program. In the chaos, Amanda learns that she can’t solve all of life’s problems by herself. With the help of her father, a pastor, and an old, retired lawyer, she’ll learn that it’s okay, and often necessary, to admit her own shortcomings and accept what others have to offer.
This is a 14-chapter sequel that picks up Amanda Holbrook’s story where Carry Me Home leaves off. This is book 2.5 in the New England Inspirations Series of books by Valerie Howard.
Keep scrolling to read the first chapter of this book.
ONE
Saturday, May 4
1:42 PM
AMANDA LUGGED the last cardboard box from her car and plopped it onto the kitchen counter with a thud. She blew her bangs out of her face and rubbed the tension from her shoulders with a contented sigh.
All moved in. Finally.
She examined the clean floors and freshly vacuumed carpet. It had been three long weeks of driving over after work to scrub, dust, and air out Hector’s old house to make it habitable once again.
Today, she’d been able to pack up her meager belongings and move everything from her damp basement apartment into her new home.
Her home—the title still didn’t seem real. She was a homeowner now. These sturdy walls were hers. These creaky kitchen cabinets holding nothing but Hector’s old flyswatter, these drafty windows, this faded carpet with a snag running under the dining room table … Okay, so it wasn’t perfect. But it was hers. And she’d update things to be more her style eventually. When she had more time. More energy. More money.
She rubbed her protruding abdomen, keenly aware that all three of those things would be in short supply for the next eighteen years.
Amanda stretched her aching back. Maybe she should have waited for Dad to help her load her car with all those heavy boxes. He looked surprised when he came home from work at lunchtime and found that she’d already done the job herself.
He’d shaken his head at her as if she were a stubborn little girl once again. “Amanda, I could have done that. You shouldn’t be lifting things.”
She could only offer a shrug. Dad was busy enough with his constant work on the apartment, community service at the soup kitchen, new job, and recent AA attendance. Not to mention his doctor’s appointments to monitor his cirrhosis. She’d moved in there without anyone’s help. She could move out the same way.
Ignoring his complaints, she gave him a sweet smile. “I’m pregnant, Dad. Not disabled. I can take care of myself.”
He grinned and muttered something about her inheriting her stubborn attitude from her mother.
“And what about you?” Fist on her hip, she shot him a glare, voided entirely by the smile tugging at her lips. “You refuse to move in with me. There’s plenty of space in Hector’s old house. You could save your money instead of paying rent here.”
Her dad laughed at that. “You’ll need all that space when the baby is born, believe me. And you’ll have your hands full enough without an old man to take care of. Besides, Evan needs me here to help fix this place up. The work keeps my hands too full to hold a bottle.” He punctuated his argument with a sheepish dip of his head.
Amanda hadn’t been able to disagree with his logic, so she’d hugged her dad goodbye and had driven to North River Junction to settle into her new house.
Now she patted her swollen middle. “Well, it’s just you and me, kid.”
A flutter of nerves swept through her chest, and she lowered herself onto a bar stool. She opened her pocketbook and pulled out a small, worn piece of paper. She unfolded it, smoothed out the creases, and studied Bill’s handwriting between the crinkled, golden borders. He had written this check to pay for her abortion all those months ago. And she’d refused to cash it. Instead, she kept it as a reminder. She’d never ask him—or anyone else—for anything ever again. She’d make it on her own two feet or die trying.
Carefully folding the tattered check, Amanda slipped it back into her purse. She could do this. She just needed to get organized. Make a list and check off one item at a time until she was ready for her daughter to arrive next month.
She mentally calculated a list of needed items—crib, infant tub, high chair, playpen, diapers, bottles, burp cloths, clothes … and gobs of other accessories. A headache threatened to crawl up the back of her neck. The only baby item she owned right now was a pink onesie she’d purchased after the gender-revealing ultrasound weeks ago. Not even close to enough.
She sucked in her breath. A shopping trip tomorrow to fill the nursery would do her a world of good. She’d be okay. She could do this alone.
Her shoulders dropped a fraction.
She had no other choice.