CHAPTER ONE
HAYDEN
The pancake flipsout of the pan, hits the stovetop, and folds in on itself like a four-year-old attempting to do yoga.
Great. Just what I need today.
Jeremiah giggles from his high chair as if this is a performance designed specifically for his entertainment. Oatmeal is drying on the floor from his earlier launch attempt, a feat that would have earned NASA funding if it hadn’t landed on the cabinets.
Presley, my seven-year-old, sits at the table quietly sketching. The stack of pancakes in front of her is darker than intended. Not burnt, technically. More like aggressively toasted.
She hasn’t touched them.
She hasn’t touched much food lately.
And she hasn’t spoken a single word since the accident.
In a few weeks, it will be one year since our lives were forever altered.
I thought I’d have my shit together by now.
Instead, it still feels like I’m on a merry-go-round that spins faster and faster with every passing day.
Cora made this look so easy. She never burned Presley’s pancakes. Hell, she’d make her pancakes while holding Jemmy because he was teething.
The memory causes a lump to form in my throat, but I push it down, kneeling by the high chair, scrubbing oatmeal off the hardwood like a man who definitely has his life together.
I’m a doctor, for crying out loud. Prior to moving back home, I’d worked in one of the busiest emergency rooms in the country. I thrived on the chaos. Loved the challenge of never knowing what would roll through those doors. Gunshot wounds. Stabbings. Car wrecks.
I never expected my own family to come through those doors, too.
“Good morning!” the sound of Dylan’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts.
My sister blows into the kitchen like a caffeinated cartoon character, all smiles and energy. Jemmy immediately starts clapping. Presley actually cracks a smile.
It’s a tiny one, but I’ll take it.
“Dee Dee!” Jeremiah exclaims.
Dylan kisses the top of his head and ruffles his dark hair. Then she moves to Presley, wrapping her in a long hug.
I pretend I’m not watching too closely.
Pretend it doesn’t bother me that my sister seems to have a stronger connection to my daughter than I do.
Dylan picks up one of the pancakes on Presley’s plate and squints at it. “What the hell do you call this?”
“Breakfast,” I respond with a shrug, cleaning up the last of the oatmeal and discarding the paper towels in the trash.
She takes a bite, then makes a fake gagging sound. “You’re the only person I know who can screw up pancakes.”
“They’re not screwed up.”
“I wouldn’t serve these even to my worst enemy.” She pushes me out of the way and starts digging through my cabinets, pulling out ingredients like she lives here.
Which she basically does.
When I moved back from Chicago after losing Cora, Dylan and Mom became my village. Babysitters. Emotional support system. My kids’ favorite people.
