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Mom knew. Dad knew, but they were trying to keep things normal for my babies while they awaited my arrival. Max giggled on a step stool beside her as they licked the batter off the whisk.And then I crushed him.
Now, he hops off the stool and hurries toward me and wraps his arms around my waist. “Hey, Maximilian,” I say, forcing a happy voice for him. “How was your little vacation?”
“Good.”
I bend over, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
“We got to see some chickens hatch,” he says, pulling away and spinning in a circle. “It was so cool, Mom. There’s one that’s all black and fluffy. I named her Violet, and she is seriously so adorable. I get to teach her how to eat.”
Mom’s hobby is breeding different kinds of chickens. The business is their lavender farm. I grew up on acres of land that produced 150 acres of lavender. When she wasn’t doing that, she was hatching chicks year-round, so even though it’s well out of chick season, it’s normal for her to hatch babies this late in the year.
“Violet is a perfect name for a silkie,” I say. “How many others were there?”
“Four. Only two made it,” Mom says.
I plop onto the stool beside Max while he recounts his week, Em nowhere to be found. As if reading my mind, Mom gives me the answer I’m looking for. “Emmy and Daddy are showering. They had a long day harvesting.”
I nod. “How was she?”
“A perfect angel,” she promises.
I snort. When had anyone described my teen—almost adult—as an angel? She’s hormonal and ragey, and bitter with the world for dealing her a shitty hand. Then, the realization sets in. Maybe they needed these last two weeks. Farm work always had a way of easing my anxiety as a kid. Was this the medicine they needed the entire time? Had I been depriving them of what they needed?
“Hey, Mom,” Em says, taking the steps that lead from the bedrooms upstairs into the kitchen. She barrels toward me, wraps me into a hug from behind, and presses a kiss to my cheek.
“Hey, honey. You have a good week?” I turn my head back to press a kiss to her cheek.
Dad comes in next, his eyes wide when they land on me. “Sammy,” he warns, narrowing in on me. “The whole point of this was for you to be finding yourself again. Without children.”
I pucker out my bottom lip. “I missed them. Besides, it’s only Friday. I was coming to pick them up on Monday anyway.”
He rolls his eyes. “Fine.”
I turn to face Mom. “I thought I could help you sell at the expo this weekend.”
She perks up at the offer of my manual labor. I hate selling at the craft events she signs herself up for. Growing up meant waking up early and never getting to sleep in. Now, it means spending time with my family. And not just my kids. Mom and I aren’t as close as me and Dad. I know it’s because our personalities clash. But I also know I need to make more of an effort to create these memories.
“What’s for dinner?” I ask.
“Butter chicken,” Mom says.
I let out a low moan of approval, and my stomach immediately growls to announce its hunger. I’ve missed her cooking more than I’ve missed spending time at the farm. Em heads for Mom, snatches the whisk from her and licks off the batter.
“Tell me about your week,” I say to her.
Max has given me his recap. Now I need hers. She lets out a grumble. “It’s like a freaking child labor camp. I’ve been up every morning at six A.M. That should be illegal.”
I snort. “Six? Gram used to come in at four every school day and make me get up to feed the animals before school.”
“And then they were so used to eating that early, you’d have to get up at the same time in summer,” Mom laughs.
“Pure torture. It prepared me for late night bottle feedings, though. You kids never let me sleep.”
Even though her back is facing me, I don’t miss the massive eye roll from Em.
“Sammy,” Mom says. “You and Max go set the table for dinner while Em and Daddy help me finish dinner.”
“Sure, Mom.” I hop off the stool and head for the utensils.
