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Present day
“Okay, pour the chocolate chips in now.”
Abby’s tiny hands grip the side of the mint-green porcelain bowl as she dumps two cups of miniature chocolate chips into the batter.
“Like that?” she asks.
“Perfect,” I reply, patting her gently on the back.
Then I hand her the wooden spoon with a smile.
“You want to try to mix it too?” I ask.
“Yes, I’ll do it,” she replies proudly.
She struggles at first. And soon, chocolate chips are flying all over my kitchen. I wince when I hear one fall behind the stove.
So I step behind her and hold the spoon over her hand. “You’re doing a great job, but let me help.”
Together, we mix chips evenly through the batter, and she starts to fidget with anticipation for the next step.
In the distance, I hear the garage door opening, and I glance at the clock to see that it’s just past three thirty, which means Caleb’s home early.
“Now what?” Abby asks excitedly.
I hand her the ice cream scoop with the floral pink handle, and I show her how to form the batter into perfect cookie-sized balls.
She pops a dollop of batter into her mouth with a mischievous smirk.
Together, we giggle as she says, “Yum!”
Behind us, I hear the door open and look over my shoulder to see Caleb walking in. He drops his keys and wallet on the entryway table as Abby squeals with joy.
“Daddy’s home!”
There’s a serious expression on his face that he quickly hides with a bright smile for our daughter.
“Hey, peanut!” he greets her as he crosses the kitchen toward us. First, he kisses the top of Abby’s head and then my cheek. “How are my girls?”
“We’re making chocolate chip cookies!” she shrieks.
“Looks delicious,” he says with a fake smile for her.
After standing up, he lets his grin fade away and makes brief eye contact with me before escaping to our bedroom. Not only can I tell he’s had a hard day of his own, but I also have to break the news to him that the two-week wait has closed, and I took a test today. Negative, again.
“Okay, peanut,” I say to Abby, “I want you to fill this whole tray with these little cookie balls and call me when you’re done.”
“Okay, Mama,” she replies.
After brushing my hands on my apron and pulling it over my head, I follow Caleb up to our room.
“You’re home early. Everything okay?” I ask with concern when I find him peeling off his work shirt and draping it over the chair in the corner.
When my husband turns toward me, I can practically see the tension dripping from his shoulders. I feel like he’s aged twelve years in the past twelve months. The last year has been hard on us all.
Typical for Caleb, he often carries all of this tension alone. Just once, I wish he would unload all of that worry and anxiety and let me help him carry it.
