“Your father?”
I gave John a doubtful glance. My father visited wounded and incarcerated soldiers all the time. But Momma was the one who took our temperature and changed our sheets, who brought us ginger ale and soup on a special “sick day” tray. “That’s not really his thing.”
“So, Beth is coming tomorrow,” John said. “And Jo gets in Wednesday. Let your sisters take some responsibility for once.”
It wasn’t that he didn’tcare, I reminded myself. But my sisters weren’t the ones who found her writhing on the dirty straw. I was. “They don’t know what to do.”
“They’re college-educated women. They’ll figure it out. Your mother’s laid up, not in a coma. She can tell them if she needs something.”
Problem solved. Except I didn’t need him to solve my problems. I wanted him tosympathize.
I caught myself.Don’t fuss. No fussing allowed.
“You’re right.” I managed a smile. “You must be starving. I’ll get started on dinner.”
Back when John and I started dating, he’d fixed all his meals from a can. As if he were still nine years old, earnestly heating Dinty Moore stew and chicken noodle soup for himself and his little brother. I’d promised myself that once we got married, my husband would come home to a hot dinner every night. I would cook for him the way Momma cooked for us. The way his own mother, bless her heart, never had the time to do. For the past five years I’d kept that pledge as seriously as our wedding vows. Even when our babies were born (thirty-six hours of labor followed by a C-section, thank you very much), I’d prepared allJohn’s meals in advance, two whole weeks’ worth of dinners with simple reheating instructions taped to each Tupperware lid. Cooking for John, caring for him in such a basic, intimate way, let him know how much I loved him.
“No rush,” John said. “I fed the kids on the way home.”
I took in my first full view of the kitchen. There were the twins’ winter jackets, heaped by the door. Their muddy shoes, half under a chair. Their dirty school bags, smack on the center of the kitchen table, waiting for me to unpack. And there, on the counter, were...
I raised my eyebrows. “Happy Meals?”
“Chicken nuggets and apple slices. With milk.” He shrugged, a little defensively. “They seemed okay with it.”
Of course they were okay with it. It wasMcDonald’s.
I could hear Elsa in the next room singing “Let It Go.”
“Sounds like fun,” I said lightly. “Let me get something for you, then.”
I opened the freezer and found a steak. John’s favorite. I popped it in the microwave to thaw.
He turned from the fridge, beer in hand. “You want anything?”
Pizza. A hug. A really large glass of wine. But I didn’t know how to say so without sounding selfish. “I’m good, thanks, honey.”
No time for baked potatoes. I went back to the freezer for Tater Tots. John tipped back his bottle, watching me, a warm look in his eyes.
I felt a little flutter of pleasure. Not that I could do anything about it now.
While the oven preheated, I unzipped the kids’ book bags to retrieve their snack containers. The unmistakable whiff of poop wafted from a knotted grocery bag.
“Oh, that,” John said. “DJ had an accident at school today.”
“Thanks. I see that.”
Gingerly, I untied the bag. There were the sweatpants DJ had worn this morning. His socks. His... everything. I took a deep breath—big mistake—and threw it all in the washing machine.
“Oh, and somebody’s mom wants to know if you can send in three dozen reindeer treats.”
The microwave beeped. Schools ran on the volunteer power of parents. Of mothers. Momma, with four daughters and a hundred goats to raise, was always baking or making or buying or selling something.
“Of course.” I set the washer to presoak.
“I figured that’s what you’d say.” John sipped his beer. “So... Treats for reindeers. What is that, like, carrots?”
I smiled, my mind already leaping ahead. “Carrot cake, maybe.” Carrot muffins? With powdered sugar instead of icing. Without nuts, obviously. Something kid-friendly that wouldn’t trigger allergies. “Thanks for letting me know.”
