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Have a good break.

When the room is empty I sit on the edge of my desk and take my phone back out of the drawer.

No new texts from Jamie. Two from Simon. One from my mom about what time we’re getting there tomorrow. One from the school reminder thread I don’t need.

I turn off the lights. Lock my classroom. Walk out into the parking lot with a tote bag full of ungraded quizzes that I probably won't get finished anyway.

The break is supposed to be easy.

I have a feeling it isn’t going to be easy.

***

“Not that hard, baby.”

Whack.

“Theo.”

Whack. Whack.

The bag pops under his spoon and fried onions spray across the counter.

Simon looks over from the other side of the kitchen, where he’s peeling eggs. I close my eyes and breathe.

“Oops,” Theo giggles.

I should have known that letting him help wouldn’t look anything like those internet-mom videos. I’d just thought that now that he’s four—and not constantly sticky, wet, and putting things in his mouth—it might actually be a bonding moment. Our first Thanksgiving cooking as a family.

“Mommy.”

I look down. He’s abandoned the spoon and is picking onions off the counter.

“What?”

“Can I eat these?”

“Those go on the casserole.”

He puts one in his mouth anyway and crunches it, holding eye contact the whole time.

Simon turns away, biting his knuckle, trying not to laugh. I smack him in the side with the dish towel. That does it. He stops hiding it, laughing openly, and Theo’s giggles spill into full belly laughs.

I turn back to the bowl and dump in the green beans, then open the can of cream of mushroom soup.

Theo leans over to inspect it and wrinkles his nose. “Ew.”

“You like this. You ate it last Thanksgiving.” I nudge his head out of my way.

“It looks yucky.” He gags, theatrical.

“It’ll look better when it’s cooked.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s how cooking works.”

“Why?”