The house feelsdifferent on Saturday evenings.
Quieter.
During the week, there’s a rhythm to everything: morning chores, lessons, meals, tourists, lessons again, paperwork, collapse. Saturdays have their own beat. Stretched out hours. Different kind of tired.
I enjoy the quiet. I grew up in it. Lived in it. Prefer it.
Most days.
Tonight, I can’t settle.
Dinner is simple. Delaney left a covered dish for us on the stove before disappearing to do… whatever she does when she’s not in the kitchen. And Silas is out having drinks with some of the guys from the market.
Boone and I sit at the table while Sadie talks nonstop about the farmers' market, hands flying, voice bouncing all over the place.
“…and then Max tried to put a pumpkin on Pickle’s head, but Pickle tried to bite it, and Ivy said, ‘For the love of carbs, stop terrorizing the dog,’ and Penny rolled her eyes like this,” Sadie demonstrates, almost falling off her chair, “and Maggie said my aura looks like glitter.”
Boone gives a pained smile. “That… sounds accurate.”
“And,” Sadie continues, gaining speed, “Delaney let me stir the muffin mix all by myself, and she said I didn’t even get shells in the bowl, and then she said I have ‘excellent folding technique.’ What’s folding?”
“Mixing gently,” I say. “So you don’t beat all the air out.”
Sadie beams. “I’m a gentle mixer. Unlike Uncle Silas. He is a chaotic mixer.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
Boone snorts.
“And she let me lick the spoon,” Sadie adds. “Even though Daddy says you’re not supposed to because of ‘raw eggs’ and ‘salmon… something.’”
“Salmonella,” Boone reminds her. “And that rule is situational.”
“She said it builds character,” Sadie declares proudly.
Boone looks up at the ceiling, asking for strength. “That’s because she’s patient.”
“More patient than you?” Sadie asks sweetly.
Boone chokes. I smother a laugh in my napkin.
“Go brush your teeth,” he mutters. “Before I reconsider dessert privileges for the next week.”
“You already said we could have treats tomorrow,” she counters, sliding out of her chair.
“I said maybe,” he corrects.
She grins, absolutely not fooled, and runs off, socked feet squeaking on the wood.
Boone stands, gathering his plate. “I’ll get her through bath and books. You don’t have to wait up.”
“I know,” I say. It’s routine at this point. “Yell if she decides the shampoo bottle is a weapon again.”
“She likes the foam,” he grumbles, but his mouth curves at the edges.
Then he disappears, his footsteps fading toward the bathroom, Sadie excitedly arguing about which pajamas are lucky.
I stack plates and carry them to the sink.
