I cook.
Rosa gives me space in the kitchen. I pull out flour and eggs and start working dough. Pasta from scratch. Something tactile and precise that requires focus.
Knead. Fold. Rest. Repeat.
The rhythm steadies me. Grounds me. Reminds me that some things still make sense even when everything else is burning down.
By the time Jess brings Ben down for lunch, I’ve got fresh tagliatelle hanging and a simple butter sauce reducing on the stove.
“Smells amazing,” Jess says.
Ben climbs onto her stool. “What are you making, Daddy?”
“Pasta. Want to help me plate?”
Her facelights up. “Yes!”
We work together. Ben counts the noodles like she counts snail shells in the garden. Jess watches from the island, notebook open, probably taking mental notes for Brave Kitchen.
And for maybe five minutes, it feels normal. Like we’re just a family having lunch together on a random weekday.
Except we’re not a family. We’re a widower, his employee, and a kid trying to navigate grief and anxiety while the world watches through telephoto lenses.
But maybe...
Someday.
I kill the thought before it can take root.
Seventy-two hours.
I can survive seventy-two hours.
29
Jess
I’m halfway through Ben’s math worksheet when my phone buzzes with the kind of notification that makes your stomach drop straight through the floor.
Amara:You need to see this. Now.
Never good. Right up there with “we need to talk” and “I have bad news.”
The link takes me to Instagram. A reel. Posted two hours ago.
The video opens on Ben in that school hallway. The one from yesterday. The early pickup. She’s mid-meltdown, curled on the floor with Frederick, tears streaming down her face. Until my stern face appears, blocking the view.
The parent filming adds a voiceover dripping with concern: “This is what happens when children don’t get proper care. This sweet girl clearly needs help, and instead her family hides her behind money and security guards.”
My face goes hot. Then cold. Then hot again.
When you realize your worst-case scenario just went viral.
The caption is worse: “When you witness a child in distress and the ‘nanny’ prioritizes optics over care. Praying for this baby. Someone needs to call CPS. #ProtectChildren #SchoolSafety #WealthDoesntEqualParenting”
Three thousand likes. Eight hundred comments. Climbing fast.
When someone weaponizes a five-year-old’s panic attack for engagement farming.
