The Truth about Rebecca

By E. M. Youman

On the verge of healing, an absentee stepfather takes his daughter to counseling, but explaining the past maybe too much for either of them to bear.

She's a banshee screaming, sugar-starved monster, and her zookeeper has left you all alone with her.
That's what's running through twenty-nine-year-old Henry Dalton's mind, when his five-year-old stepdaughter, Rebecca, enters the room and utters these fatal words. "Where's Mommy?

After deciding that fixing this problem-child is the key to winning his wife back, Henry comes up with the perfect recipe for turning Rebecca into the world’s little angel. Out goes the Valium and sugar-free snacks. Add a little pizza, ice cream and presto! But he soon discovers there's more than meets the eye with Rebecca. Now he'll have to remember what it's like to be a five-year-old and learn to communicate on her level.

At the center of the chaos is a sweet, little girl, who can charm the pants off him.
Which leaves him wondering if she’s an out of control banshee, or a victim screaming for help?

The child he never wanted to claim is the one who needs a Daddy the most.
A heartwarming coming of age tale about appreciating the gifts you have right in front of you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Will Records Publishing
• Release date: Dec 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9781519950802

Book preview

The Truth about Sugar

By E.M. Youman

Will Records Publishing

Part I

I hold out my hand toward her, straight as a board. My head faces forward, and I’m careful not to look in her direction. Patiently, I wait until her doughy little fingers touch the center of my palm. Wrapping my fingers tightly around her hand, I tug her forward.

As we walk past a dark mahogany office door, I flash a toothy smile at the receptionist holding it open for us. We walk into a white-carpeted room, and I guide the little girl over to a faded, baby blue loveseat. She grasps the cushion and hoists her chubby little body onto the sofa. I long to pull down the blue corduroy jumper that bunches around her thighs but let it be. Pick your battles.

I sit next to her and survey the room. Across from us, bay windows stretch to the ceiling and flank a small mahogany desk with a thin strip of black, faux marble on the top. A gray, high-back chair rests in the recess of the desk. To our left is a child’s oasis.

A red-, green-, yellow-, and black-checkered mat marks off the space. No grownups allowed. A stuffed giraffe stands in one corner of the mat as if it were protecting the miniature city of stuffed animals piled into a yellow plastic container behind it. Standing in another corner are two towers made of green and yellow Legos. In the middle of the mat are the bread and butter. In their respective boxes, I read off the names: Twister, Clue, Monopoly, Sorry.

If she were someone else, I’d lean over, point to the children’s area, and send her off to play, but then I’d have to be someone else too. And while we’re at it, if I were a different person, I wouldn’t even be here. The thought sobers me, and I start to feel a little dizzy as I take in the room as a whole. Streaks of sunlight pierce the room, splintering the floor into light and dark areas. I frown. The sun should not be shining today. Where are the rain clouds?

Good morning. A blonde in a creamy orange two-piece suit, with hair flowing down to her buttocks, enters the room. Her toned legs are almost too long for the skirt.

The syrupy chirp of her voice indicates Dr. Campina is the woman I spoke with yesterday. Her suntanned skin and toothpaste-commercial smile takes the sting out of the chilly atmosphere.

She sits in the gray, high-back chair, and her long legs help her scurry around the desk to face us. She clasps her hands together and leans forward to presumably talk to Becca.

Becca’s fingers curl around the piping of the sofa. Her little face twists and lips turn up as the telltale rapid breathing begins. She transforms from a docile five-year-old into a hostage victim, ready to cower in a corner under duress.

I’m sorry. I stretch my arm out to bring the doctor’s attention back to me. She looks up, puzzled, in my direction.

Becca’s wearing her glasses today. I smile at Dr. Campina as if that explanation says everything. Her blank stare pressures me into saying more. I’ve given her some invisibility sunglasses. She likes to wear them when she goes out. Becca suffers from a mild case of agoraphobia, among other things.

Oh. She leans back in