The hallway was dark as I moved toward the sounds of kids. The kitchen was worse than I’d imagined.
Cereal all over the floor, a sugary carpet of misplaced enthusiasm. Milk pooled on the counter and dripped onto the floor in a steadyplop, plop, plop.
It was a six-kid disaster zone.
At the sink, my seven-year-old, Rome, stood on a chair, “washing” a bowl. He was being “helped” by his six-year-old cousin, Fury, who was gleefully using a spoon to conduct a splash waragainstthe running water. More water was hitting the floor than the sink.
“It’s a flood!” Fury shrieked, whacking the water again.
On the floor, my five-year-old, Paris, was using a paper towel to push the milk puddle around, creating abstract, milky swirls. Beside her, eight-year-old Blaze—already so much likemy brother—was earnestly trying to build a dam with spilled Cheerios to stop the milk’s advance.
“We need more, Paris!” Blaze commanded. “It’s breaching the grout!”
The only island of calm was Aspen, sitting at the table, lining up the remaining dry Cheerios on her placemat, creating orderly circles in a world that was anything but.
Austin, my oldest at eight, was nowhere to be seen.
“Good morning,” I said. The words felt formal.Good morning, babies. Good morning, my loves.When had I lost that warmth?
Rome spun around, nearly falling off the chair. “Mom! I made breakfast!”
His face was so hopeful, so desperate for approval, that something cracked inside me. Marco would have scooped him up, booming: “Look at you, being such a big help!” even as he surveyed the disaster.
“I see that,” I said. “That was very... thoughtful.”
“It’s a big mess,” Paris announced, ever the truth-teller. “Rome spilledeverything.”
“I did not!” Rome protested, his face crumbling. “The milk carton was too heavy! And Fury ‘helped’!”
Fury just beamed, holding his spoon up like a trophy. “I’m a helper!”
“We can clean it up together,” I said, trying hard not to step into the crunch. “Where’s Austin?”
“In Dad’s office,” Paris said, still pushing the milk with her now-sodden paper towel. “He goes there every morning after you don’t come down for breakfast.”
The words sent a sharp pang through my chest.After you don’t come down for breakfast.A new normal I had created without even realizing it. I swallowed against the lump in my throat.
“I’ll go get him,” I said. “Rome, please get down from that chair. Paris, that paper towel is done. Let’s find the mop. Blaze... the dam looks great, but let’s get the dustpan.”
Next, I moved through the house, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floors.
Marco’s home office door was ajar. I hadn’t been in there since the funeral. It was too much of him. Through the gap, I could see Austin in the large leather chair, his small frame dwarfed by its size. He was spinning slowly, around and around, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. The chair squeaked with each rotation.
“Austin?”
He stopped spinning, his eyes finding mine. Marco’s eyes. That same intense, assessing gaze. “Hi, Mom.”
“What are you doing in here, sweetheart?”
He shrugged, a small, defeated gesture that broke my heart. “Just thinking.”
“About what?” I stepped into the room, fighting the urge to flee from the scent of Marco, the stacks of his books, the coffee mug still on the desk.Colombian dark roast, two sugars, splash of cream.
“Dad,” Austin said simply. “And the company.”
I sank into the visitor’s chair, the one molded to my shape from a thousand late-night conversations. “The company?”
“Yeah.” He started spinning again, slowly. “I was thinking about who’s going to run it now that Dad’s gone.”
