She does not like that answer.
“They don’t look like eggs.”
“They’re folded,” I explain. “Like little blankets.”
She considers this deeply suspicious. “Eggs don’t need blankets.”
“Sometimes they do,” I say. “It’s cold in the pan.”
This is a lie. The pan is warm. I keep the heat low anyway, watching the eggs set slowly, pale and soft, no browning, no drama. I sprinkle in finely chopped turkey and a conservative amount of shredded cheddar, then gently fold the whole thing,like I’m handling something that might emotionally break if I rush it.
My stomach rolls at the smell, sharp and sudden. I swallow hard, focus on my breathing, and remind myself that this is normal. People cook eggs every day. People do not collapse over eggs.
I slide the omelet onto a cutting board and slice it into small, neat squares. Presentation matters. Lucy believes in presentation.
“These are omelet bites,” I say, setting the plate in front of her. “You can eat them with your fingers.”
That piques her interest. She pokes one tentatively. “Is it hiding stuff?”
“Just cheese,” I assure her. “And turkey.”
She frowns. “I don’t like hiding stuff.”
“It’s not hiding.” I laugh. “It’s resting.”
She looks at me like she knows that is nonsense, but is willing to let it go for now. She picks one up, inspects it, then takes a very small bite.
I hold my breath.
She chews. Slowly. Thoughtfully. “They’re good.”
“I’m glad,” I say, smiling like my internal organs are not actively negotiating against me.
She takes another bite, then pauses. “Can I have cheese on top, too?”
“You already have cheese inside,” I say.
“More cheese,” she clarifies.
I nod because this is not the hill to die on, and add a little extra. She beams, immediately vindicated.
As she eats, swinging her legs and humming to herself, I lean against the counter and sip water, careful and slow. The nausea hums in the background, not gone, just waiting. I keep my eyeson Lucy, on the small ordinary miracle of her eating real food and not the processed shit my mom fed her.
When she finishes two whole pieces, she announces, “I’m done.”
“Of course you are,” I say gently.
She slides off her chair and wraps her arms around my legs. “You’re a good cooker,” she says, muffled against me.
My throat tightens, sudden and sharp. “Thank you.”
She pulls back, already moving on. “Can we watch cartoons now?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. “Absolutely.”
I turn on the giant screen TV to PBS and kiss the top of her head. “I’ll be right back here.”
I rinse the pan, wipe the counter, move through the motions like this morning is normal and manageable, and not quietly rearranging my entire life.
