Page 108 of Hometown Halftime

I choke on a laugh while pulling into the Lowry’s Market parking lot. Thursday afternoons have settled into a routine at this point. I pick Emma up from Little Pines Pre-K first, grab Jackson and Lucy after school, then stop for groceries before heading to Mom’s house for homework, dinner prep, and whatever fresh chaos my siblings manage to conjure before Mom gets off work.

It’s exhausting sometimes. But lately, it also feels strangely normal.

“Okay,” I say while shutting off the truck. “Mom gave us a list. Everybody stay focused so we can get out of here quickly.”

Lucy snatches the paper from my hand. “You always say that, and then Jackson disappears into the chip aisle.”

“I like to browse.” He clips.

Emma holds her hand up proudly the second we walk through the automatic doors. “I’ll be the helper today.”

“You can absolutely be the helper today,” I tell her.

The next thirty minutes turn into a dumpster fire.

Jackson argues for name-brand cereal like his life depends on it. Lucy keeps sneaking lip gloss into the cart while I pretend I don’t notice. And the entire time, Emma walks beside me, announcing random grocery items at full volume like a tiny, unhinged sports commentator.

“Bananas!”

“Yes, those are bananas.”

“Broccoli!”

“Very observant.”

An older woman near us laughs quietly while passing us, and I can’t even blame her. We probably sound absurd.

When we finally get home, Jackson disappears upstairs claiming he has “an academic emergency,” which translates to a science quiz tomorrow. Lucy raids the pantry while Emma drags markers and coloring books across the kitchen table.

I unpack groceries while preheating the oven for the casserole Mom left in the fridge.

“Homework first,” I call over my shoulder.

“I need nourishment for math homework,” Lucy argues while opening a bag of popcorn.

Emma slides onto a kitchen stool beside me swinging her legs back and forth while I cut strawberries into smaller pieces for her snack.

“Did you have rugby today?” she asks in her small voice, just like she does every day.

“No, but I did yesterday.”

“Did anybody tackle you?”

“Nope. They don’t tackle me. I’m a coach.”

She frowns. “That’s boring.”

I laugh while handing her the plate of strawberries.

By five-thirty, notebooks, colored pencils, math worksheets, and half-finished snacks cover the kitchen table while I move between helping Jackson study vocabulary words and convincing Emma that markers do not belong in her cup of apple juice.

Mom walks through the front door a little after six. The second Emma spots her, she runs across the living room.

“Mommy!”

Mom barely gets her bag onto the floor before catching her. “There’s my girl.”

Mom looks tired, but she also looks lighter than she did a few weeks ago. Hopefully, she feels less overwhelmed. Because that would make all this worthwhile.