I finish unpacking and try to sleep.
I fail spectacularly, and instead lie awake thinking about Monday.
Family Meal Monday.
I wonder whether the Brave Bites cards will land or flop.
Whether any parents will actually show up after the week we just had.
Well, they’re staff parents.Hisstaff.
Of course they’ll show up.
Won’t they?
Monday arrives way too fast.
Drop and pickup of Ben went smoothly. No meltdowns. No media confrontations.
Now I’m at FHG headquarters at four thirty helping André set up Ben’s Corner. The kid-height stools are arranged in a semicircle. Laminated Brave Bites cards are stacked on the counter. A bowl of citrus sits ready for zesting and bubble-counting.
“You good?” Marco’s VP of Service and Training asks, adjusting the lighting.
“Yeah.” I’m arranging the cards for the third time because apparently I’ve become the kind of person who stress-organizes. “Just hoping people show.”
“They’ll show.” He sounds certain. “Word got out about the cards. Parents have been asking all weekend.”
My stomach flips. The good kind of flip. The kind that says maybe this actually matters.
When validation doesn’t come from view counts.
Wild.
Matteo, the culinary director, appears from the kitchen carrying trays of the simplified kid menu. No lobster. Just simple pasta shapes and butter sauce. Apple slices arranged like fans.Focacciacut into child-sized squares. Realfocaccia. The thin, Italian kind, basically apizza panebrushed with olive oil and sprinkled withrosemary.
“This is good,” he says, setting everything down. “Easier to execute. Less waste. Parents like it.”
“Really?” My voice comes out higher than intended.
“Really.” He almost smiles. Which for Matteo is basically a standing ovation. “The kids actually eat it. That’s the whole point, no?”
Before I can respond, the first family arrives. Then another. Then five more.
By five forty-five, Ben’s Corner is humming.
A mom with twin toddlers is doing the Three-Count Touch with cherry tomatoes.
“Look, touch, smell,” she’s coaching. “You’re so brave.”
Another kid is zesting lemons with intense concentration while his dad counts the bubbles in a glass of sparkling water.
Ben’s at the craft table in the actual corner, coloring with Frederick propped beside her. She’s wearing her navy school jumper even though school is over. Comfort uniform.
I crouch next to her. “How’s Frederick doing?”
“He’s helping.” She shows me the picture. It’s a snail with a lot of shell spirals. Like a page’s worth. “He says the bubbles are working.”
My throat goes tight. “He’s very wise.”
