“I love it,” I admitted quietly.
The children whooped and cheered. Billie nearly tackled me again.
“Success,” CJ said. “Operation Protect Winnie Patio complete.”
Bianca groaned. “You promised not to call it that.”
I laughed again, more helplessly this time. But beneath the warmth blooming through me, fear unfolded. This was how it started. A place at the table or a hook for a parasol quickly became more than met the eye.
This family was making room for me in their lives.
And the truly terrifying thing was how badly I wanted to stay with them. Forever.
The children settled around the dining room table for homework time like little suffering prisoners, except for Bianca, who spread out her books with military precision. CJ chewed the end of his pencil while staring into the distance with the look of a tortured poet.
Billie had somehow attached three stickers to her forehead before she’d even opened her backpack.
I stood in the kitchen doorway, watching them for a moment while the late-afternoon light filtered softly through the windows.
Something inside me still felt unsettled from earlier. I felt warm and full. Uncomfortably close to happy.
“Homework first, then you can pursue other interests,” I reminded gently.
CJ sighed dramatically. “Every great creative mind throughout history has resisted structure.”
“Every great creative mind throughout history still had deadlines.”
“You’re behind in math,” Bianca said, opening the textbook she needed.
“No way,” CJ argued. “I’m ahead in math.”
“You got a forty-two on your quiz.”
CJ had nothing more to say.
Billie raised her hand. “I colored my spelling words.”
“That’s not the assignment,” Bianca informed her.
“It made them prettier.”
I laughed softly and turned toward the kitchen before they could drag me into mediating whatever bizarre educational philosophy debate was brewing.
Cooking usually calmed me. Tonight, though, it was different. It felt like joy. Actual joy without strings attached. The kind that made me reach instinctively for recipes that took much more time and hands-on attention. Somewhere along the way, I’d stopped thinking about dinner as another task to complete and started thinking about the faces gathered around the table waiting to eat it.
I tied an apron around my waist and got to work. Soon, I had chicken stock, rich with garlic and herbs, simmering on the stove, vegetables marinated for roasting later in the week, and bread dough resting under linen clothes.
I prepared small containers of fruit and yogurt for the children’s lunches, rolled savory hand pies for easy reheating, and assembled enough pasta bake to feed a medieval village.
Perhaps I was overdoing it, but emotional overwhelm and domesticity had always been closely linked for me. Some women cried; I braised short ribs.
The front door opened, and then Conrad was stepping into the kitchen, his tie loose around his neck, and fatigue weighing his body down.
Then he sniffed and froze on the spot. “Oh my god. What smells so good?”
“The queen has chosen to feed us aggressively,” CJ explained.
Conrad wandered toward the stove, looking genuinely stunned. There were containers of chopped vegetables and prepared meals stacked on all the counters, and labeled lunch boxes in the refrigerator.
