I knew they were struggling. I wasn’t naïve. Things had been hard for a long time now, and kids didn’t always know how to say what hurt. Sometimes it looked like tantrums, acting out, or Billie trying to ferment pancake batter directly onto the walls of our home.
I understood that. At least I thought I did.
“I know,” I said softly.
CJ’s shoulders relaxed a little. Bianca now closed her book fully, watching me carefully. Billie wrapped her flour-covered arms around my leg without warning.
“I missed you the mostest,” she said.
“That feels statistically unlikely, given your small size.”
She squeezed tighter. “I’m bigger than I look.”
I huffed out a laugh despite myself.
Above Billie’s head, CJ and Bianca exchanged a look. A victorious look.
And deep down, buried beneath exhaustion and guilt and love and another failed nanny, I had the vague notion that my too-smart-for-their-own-good children were exploiting me.
Unfortunately, I loved them enough that I let it happen.
Billie’s stomach growled against my thigh. It was aggressive enough that all four of us looked down.
Billie patted her belly. “There’s a monster in here.”
“There is not a monster in there,” Bianca corrected.
Billie scowled at her sister.
CJ, still wearing his professional apology face, glanced toward the kitchen. “Did Mrs. Cornell happen to make dinner before she departed?”
I looked toward the kitchen too, and for one beautiful, stupid second, I imagined a hot meal waiting. Something wholesome, with vegetables. Something that indicated a functioning adult had been present before flour had entered the ventilation system.
Then I remembered Mrs. Cornell had left with her electric kettle and what remained of her dignity.
“No,” I said. “I don’t think she did.”
Billie’s grip around my leg tightened. “Are we gonna die?”
“Not immediately.”
“When?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Hard to say.”
Bianca closed her book and tucked it under her arm. “Starvation usually takes weeks, depending on hydration and body composition.”
CJ rolled his eyes. “Read the room.”
“What?” she asked.
I drew in a breath and released it slowly.
Cooking was an option in the technical sense. We owned pans. We owned utensils. Somewhere in the kitchen, there were ingredients. The refrigerator ordered groceries on its own because I’d decided at some point that what my life needed was an appliance with more executive function than I had. The damn thing had its own algorithm.
I could have cooked.
I could have opened that shiny, judgmental refrigerator, assessed its contents, made something passably nutritious, and turned the evening into a character-building exercise.
