“With real paint or for food?”
“For food, duh,” Nicky groans. “Lots and lots and lots of icing!”
His birthday isn’t until February but at this rate, it’ll be here before I know it. More money I don’t have. Everything set aside to give him a birthday party went on creating a decent Christmas for us all. I’ll need to get creative for his birthday.
“I’m sure we can work something out,” I say, unwilling to squash his dreams just yet.
“Yay! I wanna have all my friends and show them that I do this the bestest ever. Do you like it, Mommy?”
As I work around the kitchen, I snatch a look at the globs of sauce smeared over one plate. “It’s beautiful!”
“Grandma likes birds, right?”
Squinting my eyes, I fail to see the bird shape, but his enthusiasm is enough to draw a noise of agreement from my throat.
I add butter and cream to the mash, check on the roasted veg, open a fresh can of sauce, and I’m in the process of pulling theflan out of the fridge when my phone lights up on top of the fridge. Placing the flan aside, there’s a new message in the midst of several New Year’s wishes.
My best friend, Stacey, has sent a bunch of party emojis followed by several cocktail glasses and question marks to a group chat with old school friends I haven’t spoken to in years. Stacey’s the only one I’ve remained close with since everyone else backed away when I was pregnant. Having a kid so young seemed to scare them, or at the very least make them uncomfortable, but they still say hi every now and then.
A flood of agreement comes through from everyone else and I’m about to ignore it when Stacey tags me in the group chat three times, then texts me.
[Stacey]: Drinks??
[Calliope]: I can’t.
[Stacey]: Please. I haven’t seen you in forever.
[Calliope]: I know, I’m sorry, hun. It’s just… difficult.
[Stacey]: Because of Nick?
[Calliope]: And my Mom. It’s hard, y’know.
[Stacey]: Oh, of course. Well, if you change your mind, text me! Love you!
I reply with as many heart emojis as I can while placing my phone back on top of the fridge.
“Watch the chicken doesn’t burn.” Mom stands in the doorway, her dark hair messy on one side and her eyes still weighed down with the lingering remnants of her nap.
“The chicken is fine.”
“What on earth is he doing?” Mom surges forward suddenly, and I catch her arm before she can grab the spoon out of Nick’s hand.
“He’s decorating.”
“It looks terr?—”
“Nick!” I say loudly, cutting her off. “Why don’t you go and see if you’ve had any New Year’s messages from your friends?”
“On the iPad?” Nick asks, his eyes wide.
“Yes.”
“Yay!” He immediately abandons his sauce designs, slides from his stool, and charges out of the kitchen like a little man on a mission.
“What is wrong with you?” I hiss as Mom jerks her arm from my grip. “He’s five years old. Let him decorate the plates.”
“That’s not decoration. You’re just letting him play with his food. That’s so irresponsible, Calliope. I raised you better than that!”
