“Good girl. Now eat.”
The pasta disappears quickly as the three of us eat together. Tate avoids looking at me, instead, giving her attention to Molly and telling her about animals, reeling off random facts, including how pigs are used to sniff out the truffles we just ate. My daughter hangs off her every word with big, wide eyes.
“Do you want me to get the dessert we made so you can show Daddy?” Tate asks her.
“Yay!” Molly claps. “Daddy, we made cookies.”
“You did, huh? You’ve been busy.”
She smiles at me, and Tate reaches for the plates. I stand before she can and clear them away myself. “I’ve got it.”
“Thanks,” she murmurs, stalling for a moment like she feels uneasy in my kitchen, despite the fact she seemed at home singing in it a mere twenty minutes ago.
“Side plates are in that one.” I gesture to a cabinet and her shoulders soften.
“Great. I’ll get them.”
The cookies have Molly shouting with excitement.
“Daddy!” She points to the cat shapes.
Half are intricately designed like something from a baking magazine; the cat’s faces and whiskers drawn on perfectly with icing, and pastel-colored sweaters adorn their bodies. The other half have wobbly mouths and blobs of thick icing strewn over them.
I pick up one of the inebriated-looking cats.
“This is the best cat wearing a sweater cookie I’ve ever seen in my life,” I announce. Tate’s staring at me, so I add, “Wouldn’t you agree, Tate?”
Her cheeks flush and she nods. “Absolutely. The best.”
Molly beams with pride.
I’m not one for cookies, but I eat the entire thing, making a show of smacking my lips against my fingertips and giving a chef’s kiss when I’m done. “Well done, Sweetheart.”
Molly smiles, her face covered in crumbs and icing.
Tate’s eyes snap to my face as Molly grabs another cookie and takes a bite. “They’re oat flour and coconut sugar. All organic,” she says in a rush like she thinks I’m about to make a comment.
“Even the sweaters?” I ask, my eyes sliding in amusement to one of the neater cats wearing polka-dots.
“Yeah, even the sweaters,” she says, looking at me like she was expecting me to be pissed.
She stands before I can and starts clearing up again.
“You don’t need to do that.”
She shakes her head, keeping her back to me, like she doesn’t want to look at me. “It’s okay. I made the mess; I’ll clean it up before I go. Unless you want me to do Molly’s bedtime routine?” She pauses and looks at me over her shoulder.
“I don’t,” I state, standing quickly the moment Molly finishes her cookie.
If Tate’s offended by my gruff reply, she doesn’t show it.
I thank her and take Molly to the bathroom to help her wash up. I’m lying on her bed, finishing up reading to her with her nightlight on when there’s a soft knock on the door.
“Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to tell you I’m leaving,” Tate says, her eyes softening as she looks at a sleepy Molly with her head resting on my chest, her heavy eyelids fighting to concentrate on the cartoon image on the page in front of her.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “It’s time we finished for the night.”
Molly mumbles sleepily and I run my fingers through her hair; the silky feel of it the only thing that calms me. Storytime with her is my favorite part of the day. No matter what shitstorm could have happened at work, this is my sanctuary. The thing that keeps me anchored and stable.
