“Honestly? Same.”
I set him in his booster seat—which has survived six separate repairs and the application of industrial straps I bought from a dockworker who assured me they were “probably not stolen”—and move to the kitchenette.
The coffee maker wheezes like it has one foot in the grave and a lawsuit pending. I start it anyway. Then I crack eggs into a pan, slice fruit, and warm up grain mash because the pediatric nutrition guide insists hybrid toddlers require balanced proteins, trace minerals, and enough calories to power a small siege engine.
From behind me Jesse says, “Mama.”
“Yes?”
“Chair sad.”
I turn. “What?”
He points at the dining chair he used as a ladder. One back leg is bent at an angle no chair leg should ever attempt. Splintered composite peeks through the faux wood finish.
I close my eyes.
Of course the chair is sad.
I walk over, test it carefully, and the leg gives with a dry little crunch. The whole thing lists sideways like it’s drunk before sunrise.
Jesse watches me with deep concern. “I fix?”
“No,” I say quickly. “No, sweetheart. You have fixed enough things.”
He frowns. “I sat.”
“I know you sat.”
“Chair broke.”
“Yes.”
He spreads his hands in a tiny gesture that somehow conveys both innocence and a complete refusal of accountability. “Rude chair.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it. “Yeah. Very rude chair. Openly disrespectful, really.”
He nods, pleased that I understand.
I drag the mangled thing toward the wall and prop it beside the other broken household casualties awaiting either repair or surrender. The pile now includes a lamp, two drawer handles, a holo remote, and a toy shuttle Jesse dismantled with the focused serenity of a bomb technician.
Childcare centers don’t want him. Not for long. Not once they realize he can pull a mounted rail out of drywall or bend playpen bars because he got curious. The last sitter smiled at pickup and said, with the brittle calm of a woman leaving a war zone, “He is exceptionally advanced,” which is professional shorthand for your child folded our furniture like laundry.
I flip the eggs.
My chest tightens the way it has for weeks now, that ugly little knot of arithmetic and fear. Rent due in six days. Utility notice blinking on my comm. Jesse’s care getting harder to arrange. Prices going up on everything except wages, because apparently the one stable law in the universe is that corporations will watch you drown and invoice you for the water.
Behind me Jesse starts singing to his spoon in a language that is either nonsense or the beginning of a Vakutan war hymn. Hard to say. Bron used to sing under his breath too, low and rough and infuriatingly charming, like even silence was flirting.
I shove the thought away so hard it practically leaves tire marks.
Nope.
Not at six in the morning.
Not before caffeine.
I plate Jesse’s food and set it in front of him. “Eat.”
