Chapter 14
And as Jaya stirred in her crib, farting softly like a tired balloon, I knew I had something he didn’t.
A second chance.
He could have my empire. For now. He could take the buildings and the bank accounts. But I had rage, survival skills, and a three-baby army that feared nothing—not even floor poop.
Tomorrow, I will start planning. Because this wasn’t just Catherine’s body anymore.
This was my war paint.
And I was about to launch Operation: Petty Resurrection.
It was a Friday morning when I woke up with a plan. The kids were at school. Jaya was drooling on a piece of crayon like it owed her money. And I? I was a man on a mission. Trapped in a woman’s overly sensitive, constantly aching, gravity-loving body—but still a man with purpose.
We needed a car.
Not just for errands. Not just for groceries. But because the Bus of Sorrows had tested every ounce of my soul. The last time I rode it, a man sat next to me and started flossing his teeth with a headphone wire while whispering conspiracy theories about pigeons. Never again.
I tucked baby Jaya into her stroller, stuffed some emergency snacks (half a banana and a cold hotdog), and marched out toward the nearby used car dealership—Frankie’s Friendly Autos, which was a lie because there was nothing friendly about it.
The lot was filled with wounded vehicles that looked like they’d seen the apocalypse and chose to retire here. But in the middle, parked with weird pride, was a banana-yellow family van.
And just like that, I knew. That was my chariot.
Out came Old Frank—the same grumpy mechanic who’d been giving me suspicious looks since the last time I asked if the “car fluids” included hair oil.
He rubbed the back of his neck, squinting like I’d just stepped out of a telenovela.
“Catherine? You again? You sure you’re not possessed?”
I adjusted my hoodie, stood straight despite my lower back threatening mutiny, and cleared my throat.
“Listen here, Frank. I may look like I’ve just come out of a lasagna coma, but I know a solid ride when I see one.”
Frank blinked. “You do?”
“Yes. That—” I pointed like I was in an action film, “—that yellow van. That’s a 2007 model, Japanese make. Front-wheel drive. Four-cylinder engine. Probably runs on synthetic oil. Clean lines. Strong bones.”
He raised a brow. “It’s a… Honda Freed.”
“Yes. Honda Freed,” I echoed, pretending I hadn’t just read the badge on the side. “A real family beast. Spacious, durable. Great for city driving and maternal warfare.”
Frank walked around the van slowly, chewing the inside of his cheek.
“Got three kids now, huh?” he muttered. “This ain’t your usual type, Catherine. Last year you asked if the Prius could handle a wine fridge.”
I coughed. “That was before… enlightenment.”
“Hmm,” he grunted. “Well, this one’s been sitting here a while. Most people don’t want a van that looks like SpongeBob’s cousin.”
“It’s sunshine yellow,” I corrected. “It screams confidence. Visibility. Safety. If I’m gonna be hauling gremlins around town, I want every pedestrian and pigeon to see me coming.”
Frank snorted. “You talk like a mechanic now. What's next, you gonna tell me the torque ratio?”
I leaned casually against the van, trying not to let my hip give out.
“Torque’s not everything, Frank. What matters is suspension integrity, tire grip, and whether the A/C won’t make my thighs sweat in July.”
He stared at me for a long time. “...You sure you’re not possessed?”
“Only by purpose and caffeine.”
Of course, we struck a deal. Cash. No paperwork delays. I paid using some of the cash I’d hidden years ago in that mountain cabin. Frank even tossed in a free air freshener—something called “Arctic Breeze” that smelled like frozen mint mixed with church anxiety.
I buckled Jaya into the middle seat. She looked around wide-eyed like she’d just inherited a throne. I adjusted the rearview mirror and whispered to myself:
“We ride at dawn.”
But it was 10 a.m.
Next mission: clothing for the children.
I entered the local department store like a confused war veteran. I had no idea what I was doing. Kids’ clothes were organized by age, size, gender, possibly zodiac sign—I don’t know. The hangers were tiny. The socks were rainbow-colored cotton lies. And the underwear section made me question everything about this world.
I stood in front of a rack of leggings, holding a pair of glittery pink ones and a onesie with a unicorn farting rainbows, when a soft voice said behind me—
“You look like you need help. Or wine.”
I turned.
She was maybe mid-thirties, wearing a red cardigan, holding a toddler on one hip and a latte on the other. Her smile was kind, her eyes filled with a mother’s understanding of sleep-deprivation and existential dread.
“I’m Mylene,” she said, shifting the toddler. “You okay?”
I nodded quickly. “I just… I have memory problems. And kids. And… I think this onesie might be evil.”
She laughed and took the unicorn outfit from me.
“Let me help. How many kids?”
“Three. Girls. All feral.”