I swear, now they’re just throwing the word out to make me cry.
“Yes!” Clearly, I’m having trouble controlling my emotions. “Just be careful not to use too much or the bread will be soggy,” I advise, handing him a small butter knife and watching as he with childish expertise spreads a thin layer onto each slice.
Phaedra and Sabrina chop the cooked lobster and mix it with a touch of mayonnaise and lemon juice while I make sure everything is just right for our Boston meal. The children chatter excitedly as we work, sharing stories about their day and asking questions about the origins of my Boston favorites.
“Mommy, did Grandpapa teach you how to make all this?” Phaedra asks, her eyes full of wonder.
“Sort of,” I admit. “The Boston cream pie was my mom’s favorite, so my dad and I would make it for her birthday. But the chowder and lobster rolls we’d go out for.” I reply, my heart aching with longing for my dad. As we continue to prepare our feast, I find comfort in sharing a piece of my father’s legacy with my children. It feels like he’s still with us, somehow, smiling down on our little family as we bond over food and laughter.
Over Boston.
The thought of discussing my new reluctance to hire a nanny with Sebastian gnaws at me. I know it won’t be an easy conversation, but I can’t ignore my growing desire to cherish every moment with the children. Gazing at their happy faces,stained with flour and bursting with pride at their culinary creations, I resolve to speak with my grump of a husband tonight. For now, though, I’ll create memories that will hopefully last a lifetime.
“How do you know when the rolls are done?” Sabrina asks, her brow furrowing in concentration as she checks the oven.
“Keep an eye on them,” I advise. “When they’re golden brown and crispy, they’ll be ready.”
“Got it!” she replies, her determination evident as she stands on a kitchen chair and peers through the oven door. Zayer, meanwhile, focuses on his task of whipping up the cream for our Boston cream pie. He looks at me with a mixture of awe and curiosity at how the cream comes together. Their laughter and enthusiasm echo in the room, filling the void left by the absence of my parents. This Friday night ritual of cooking and watching movies has become more than just a simple family tradition. It’s become a lifeline connecting me to my past.
Suddenly, a blur of movement catches my eye. Arthur, our mischievous ferret, darts into the kitchen, his little paws kicking up flour that spilled onto the floor.
“Arthur!” I exclaim, trying to contain my laughter.
“Arthur!” all three children cry as well, their eyes sparkling with delight at the unexpected visitor.
“Get him!” Sabrina squeals, and like a shot, they’re off, chasing the tiny whirlwind around the kitchen.
“Be careful, you guys!” I call after them, though I know it’s fruitless. The thrill of the chase has taken hold, and there is no stopping them now. Hell, their favorite pastime is chasing Arthur around the palace.
“Arthur, come back!” Zayer shouts, diving under the table in an attempt to catch our elusive pet.
“Quick, he’s going that way!” Phaedra directs, pointing toward the pantry. The children’s laughter fills the room as theyscramble after him, their previous culinary tasks momentarily forgotten.
“Gotcha!” Sabrina cries triumphantly, emerging from behind a stack of pots, Arthur held gently in her hands. His beady eyes gleam with trouble, and I can tell he’s quite pleased with himself.
“Nice catch, Sabrina,” I praise, relief washing over me that no harm had come to our furry friend or the food. No way am I remaking this meal. It’s already more work than I initially thought it would be.
“Can Arthur stay and watch the movie with us tonight?” Phaedra asks, her eyes pleading with me as she gives Arthur a gentle pat on the head.
“Of course,” I agree, smiling at their love for the little troublemaker. “But first, let’s clean up this mess and then it’s dinnertime. And no, before you ask, Arthur cannot join us for dinner.”
They groan at the directive but quickly get over it. Together, we set about tidying up the kitchen and putting the finishing touches on our Boston-themed feast. Only, in the midst of our laughter and cooking, I hadn’t noticed the thin layer of flour blanketing the floor. As I turn to cross the kitchen to get the broom, my foot slips on the powdery surface, sending me careening toward the ground.
Arms flail. Legs give out. My ankle rolls. And I land on my side. Hard.
“Ouch!” I cry out, feeling a sharp pain shoot through my ankle and hip. One hand instinctively goes to my growing belly, concern for my pregnancy overriding any other discomfort. I slammed my hip hard on the floor, not my stomach, but I immediately roll to my bottom and stare down at my stomach as if I’m expecting it to deflate.
“Mommy!” Sabrina gasps, rushing to my side with wide, frightened eyes.
“Are you okay?” Zayer asks, his voice and chin trembling.
“I’m fine,” I reassure them quickly, though I can feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes from the pain in my ankle and the fear over hitting my side. “I just slipped on some flour, that’s all.” Fuck. I can’t lose it right now, but…the way I fell…the way I hit the floor. I suck in a steadying breath even as a slight cramp shoots through me. “Phaedra,” I exhale, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. “Can you please go get your papa for me?”
“Okay, Mommy,” she nods, her face pale with worry, before sprinting out of the kitchen.
“Sweethearts,” I say softly, addressing Sabrina and Zayer as they hover anxiously over me, staring straight at my stomach and my swelling ankle. At least it’s not the ankle I wear the tracking bracelet on or that would likely cut into my skin. “It’s going to be all right.” I hope.
“Are the babies okay?” Sabrina asks, touching my stomach, and I practically lose it right here. Because I don’t know if they’re okay. It could be a muscle twinge—I know this—but I’m having spasms in my side.
