"Ow, Mom.Ow."
"I saidhold still."
"I can't sit still while you're pulling my brain through my scalp!"
"Your brain is fine. Your hair, however, is – I saidsit still!"
I work my fingers through another stubborn tangle, coaxing the strands into submission. Morgan's perched on the kitchen stool, hunched over a bowl of cereal she's been 'eating' for twenty minutes. Translation: she's been pushing Cheerios around like tiny life rafts while narrating an elaborate disaster scenario involving a sinking ship and an invisible heroic dolphin.
The apartment above Butter Batch is its usual morning chaos.
Morgan's school art projects are papering the fridge, a laundry basket I swore I'd fold two days ago is still sitting by the couch, and a stack of picture books remains on the coffee table from last night's bedtime negotiations.
I'm almost certain that somewhere under the clutter, there's a permission slip I need to sign and a library book that's definitely overdue.
But at least the braid is coming together. Finally.
"There." I secure the end with an elastic, then spin her around to inspect my work. "Cool enough for you?"
Morgan twists to catch her reflection in the microwave door, her face scrunching in concentration. She turns left and tilts her chin up like she's posing for an Instagram selfie.
"Mmmm… It's acceptable," she declares.
"High praise."
I glance at the clock on the wall. 6:40 AM. Twenty minutes until the bus arrives to collect my daughter. Twenty minutes until—
No. Don't think about it. Do not think about it.
"Homework in your bag?"
Morgan nods confidently, sliding off the stool. "Yep."
"Really?" I reach into the disaster zone and pull a crumpled worksheet that looks like it's been used as a napkin, a coaster, and possibly a tissue off the coffee table. "So this is... what? A lost pirate's treasure map?"
Morgan snatches it from my hand, shoving it into her backpack with zero remorse.
"Wow. You're tense today." She studies me with way too much sass for a ten-year-old who wouldn't sleep in her own bed last night. "Still thinking about The Help?"
"Morgan!" I cut her a glare. "We don't call people 'The Help.' That's rude."
"Fine." She zips her backpack with a dramatic flourish. "Still thinking aboutAmbassador Muffin Man?"
I choke on my coffee.
"I'm not—" I start, then stop, because my daughter is grinning at me with way too much confidence. Seriously. You raise yourkids to be strong and independent, and this is what you get. "I'm notthinkingabout anyone. I'm thinking about the bakery. And your homework. And whether you remembered to brush your teeth."
"I did."
"Withtoothpaste?"
The guilty flicker in her eyes tells me everything.
"Go. Now. You have two minutes."
She scampers off toward the bathroom, and I'm left alone with the ticking clock and the traitorous spiral of my own thoughts.
Today is just business.
