They’re making her legendary voodoo brownies. A recipe that, once assembled with ice cream, cocoa-dusted whipped cream, and slightly charred spaghetti noodles, is supposed to resemble a voodoo doll.
In theory.
In practice, the blue-ribbon recipe has gone full volcanic aftermath. Chocolate lava coats the counters. Cocoa fogs the air.
Even their faces are streaked with chocolate. Less accident, more game-day war paint.
They wanted to make welcome snacks for Gabe’s sister, and who was I to say no? Especially since I won’t be there to greet her.
My goofy kids are too busy to notice I’m still on the phone. They’re playing, grinning like they just pulled off the heist of the century. And damn it, I’d give anything to be there right now.
I clear my throat.
“I said, love yooouuu.”
Ah, yes. The wounded battle cry of the ignored parent.
“Love you, too!” they shout in unison, voices tangled in laughter as an all-out chocolate war detonates.
I don’t even have the heart to tell them to settle down and behave.
Not when Mrs. D. clearly fired the first shot.
The call abruptly dies. The screen goes black.
Silence.
Just me. And the faint echo of their laughter still ringing in the room.
FOMO hits hard and mean, settling somewhere just behind my ribs, where it tightens.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that a single parent of three couldn’t use a night off.
I just… miss them.
Which is ridiculous, right?
It’s one night.
And leaving them with Mrs. D shouldn’t twist me up like this. Delilah Donovan is family in all the ways that matter.
When Zac and my sister finally cuff themselves together on Valentine’s Day, that’ll just make it official.
After spending years oceans apart in the name of duty, honor, and country, a familiar ache tightens in my chest.
Every second without my kids reminds me exactly how much I hate it.
It’s bad enough I work at all hours. Weekends are my one non-negotiable.
I only let them go for sleepovers. Or when I don’t have a choice.
Like when my appendix tried to take me out and the morphine drip had me forgetting my own name.
Or when my trio decided “indoor baseball” was a thing.
For the record, it’s not.
Both the flatscreen and my nose can vouch for that.
