Six weeks into my sabbatical, and I’ve turned the kitchen into something between a command center and a slightly unhinged Pinterest board.
There’s a whiteboard calendar in the kitchen now. It’s color-coded, itemized, and highlighted. Dinner menus prepped for the week. Forms for camp filled out on time. Backpacks lined up by the door like surgical trays, ready for deployment.
Jayne wanders in just as I’m taping a “Snack Station” list to the fridge.
She raises an eyebrow over her coffee mug. “What exactly is that?”
“Inventory,” I say without looking up. “We ran out of Goldfish twice last week. I want to track our depletion rate.”
Her lips twitch. “You’re tracking our Goldfish depletion rate?”
“Efficiency prevents chaos.”
“Or causes it.”
I grin as I label the containers. Apple slices. Grapes. Granola bars. Carrots cut into little matchsticks, like I saw on YouTube.
From the table, Finn whispers loudly to Mikaela, “Dad’s reorganizing the planet again.”
“Don’t make eye contact,” Mikaela whispers back. “He’ll make us fold towels.”
Jayne snorts into her coffee.
I glance over my shoulder. “You’re all mocking the system.”
“We’re surviving the system,” Jayne says sweetly, patting my chest as she walks by.
“You know if I were a lesser man, I’d be offended,” I quip.
“Dad, you’re having way too much fun to be offended,” Finn retorts.
He’s right. I am having a great time. Being home, being part of the rhythm, watching how this family actually works is grounding in a way I didn’t expect.
One afternoon in month two, Claire drops by with iced coffees. She calls at least once a week, and this is thefirst time she’s come for a home visit. Yeah, she’s stillplayingpsychologist.
“Paul tells me you’re terrorizing your household with color coding.” She hands me a cup.
“That traitor,” I mutter. I sent him pictures to show off, and he tattled on me. “If you must know, Claire, I’m improving efficiency.”
She gives the kitchen a slow, pointed once-over—the labeled bins, the immaculate counters, the aggressively tidy spice rack. “Ah. Yes. Efficiency. Every mother’s fantasy.”
I roll my eyes. “You sound like Jayne.”
“That’s because Jayne is right.” She settles onto a stool at the kitchen island, therapist calm radiating off her like a force field. “So. Tell me—how’s the cardiac-style home management going?”
I sit too, smiling wide. “The other team members are…noncompliant.”
Claire clasps her hands, nodding like this is tragic but expected. “Love is a terrible environment for protocols.”
“I don’t know how she did it while she worked, Claire,” I remark, dryly. “Schedules, meals, drop-offs, pick-ups—there’s so much to track. I feel like an ass.”
“Rhys.” Her voice softens. “You’ve got to stop being so hard on yourself.”
“Do I?” I exhale and rub my chest. “Jayne says the same thing. But I feel like…I feel like I let her down, and now I’m taking six months off, and she’s all forgiving. I don’t deserve that.”
Claire looks at me with appreciation. “You’re a remarkable man.”
I cock an eyebrow. “I am?”
