1
CONRAD
As I drove home, I kept thinking about my couch.
After the week I’d had, the idea of sitting down without anyone asking me for revisions, projections, approvals, signatures, follow-ups, or “quick five-minute calls” felt like the equivalent of an all-inclusive beach resort.
Traffic crawled the last few miles into the neighborhood. The earlier rain still clung to the roads in silver streaks beneath the streetlights, and my windshield wipers gave a final tired swipe before I turned off the car in front of the house.
Finally home. Thank God almighty.
I stared at the three-story manor. Some might describe my home as overkill or a bit on the large side. I, however, loved that I provided a beautiful home for my children. They had the space they needed to stretch out, and a vast front yard to play sports in. Birthday parties and get-togethers had always been a hit at our place.
I grabbed the bakery box from the passenger seat carefully before climbing out. The raspberry swirl cheesecake with fresh whipped cream piped along the edges had cost so much that it would’ve offended me if it wasn’t genuinely life changing.
Friday night cheesecake had become a tradition sometime after… everything. The kids looked forward to it all week. Honestly, so did I. It was predictable and fun.
It was ours.
For a few hours every Friday, we got to pretend life wasn’t exhausting and weird and occasionally heartbreaking.
The porch lights shone brightly into the darkening evening as I climbed the steps. I loosened my tie with one hand, then balanced the cheesecake against my hip while digging for my keys.
Suddenly, the front door burst open with enough force to make me jump. Mrs. Cornell stormed out, covered in flour.
What the hell?
There was flour in her hair, on her cardigan, coating the front of her skirt and her orthopedic shoes. She looked like she’d lost a fight in a bakery.
Only her glasses remained untouched. They sat pristine on her face while the rest of her looked ready to be baked at three-fifty for forty minutes.
My stomach dropped instantly.
“No,” I said. “No, no—Mrs. Cornell?—”
“I quit.” Arms loaded with her belongings, she blew past me down the porch steps, moving with alarming speed for a woman who owned at least seven different shawls.
“Wait.” I hurried after her. “What happened?”
She spun around so abruptly that I nearly walked straight into her.
“What happened?” she screeched. “Your youngest child released flour through the ventilation system of your house, Mr. Lawrence.”
My mouth dropped open. “She didwhat?”
“You heard exactly what I said. She called it a weather event.”
I felt my soul leave my body a little.
Mrs. Cornell yanked open the trunk of her sedan and started throwing her things into it with frightening efficiency.
Umbrella.
Spring jacket.
Spare shoes.
Electric kettle.
