Then I reach the kitchen.
Smoke billows from a pan on the stove. The smell of burnt bread hangs thick in the air. Mr. Gray Sweatpants (upgraded from Mr. Grump in a Suit) is standing on achair, arms raised, desperately trying to silence the smoke detector.
At the table a few feet away, a little boy with a full head of dark hair sits in a high chair, his face and shirt covered in ketchup, his wails almost as loud as the smoke detector.
Beside him, a girl of maybe six or seven sits with her head bowed, hands pressed over her ears, making herself small.
Finally, the alarm stops.
Seconds later, the boy’s cries taper off and silence settles in the room. It almost feels louder.
Mr. Gray Sweatpants steps down from the chair and drags a hand over his face. He looks exhausted, like even sleeping for days on end wouldn’t be able to fix it.
“As you can see,” he says quietly, “now’s not a good time.”
Something in his voice cracks my chest open.
This man isn’t grumpy. He’s drowning, in desperate need of a lifesaver.
So that’s what I’ll be, even if just for tonight.
I move toward the stove and grab the pan, dumping the contents into the trash can, where there are at least three previous grilled cheese casualties, each one progressively darker.
“Why don’t you go clean up the little one,” I suggest. “By the time you’re done, I’ll have un-charred grilled cheese ready.”
“You don’t have to. I can?—”
“Handle it yourself?” I arch a brow.
I try not to sound judgmental. We’re all on differentpaths, on different parts of our journey. He’s obviously floundering, but is too proud to admit it. As if accepting help makes him “less than”.
I know that feeling all too well.
“I thought I’d have it together by now.”
The words are barely audible.
But I hear them.
“Go,” I say softly. “I’ll keep an eye on…” I glance toward the petite brunette sitting at the table, her wide eyes seemingly glued on me. I get the feeling she’s a little shy, considering she hasn’t uttered a single word while the little boy hasn’t stopped babbling.
“That’s Presley,” Mr. Gray Sweatpants says, nodding toward the girl. “And the ketchup disaster is Jeremiah. Jemmy.”
I approach the table with a smile. “Nice to meet you, Jemmy.” Then I look to the little girl. “Presley. That’s a great name. My name’s Rowan.”
She doesn’t respond. Instead, she averts her gaze.
“She doesn’t talk,” Mr. Gray Sweatpants explains. “Hasn’t in almost a year.”
Something shifts in my chest, and it takes everything in me not to cry. No wonder she cowers in her own body. No doubt everyone looks at her with pity. But I won’t.
I know how it feels to have everyone whisper about you behind your back because of something out of your control.
“That’s okay,” I say brightly. “Talking’s overrated anyway. There are tons of other ways to communicate.” My eyes flick to her sketchpad. “Like drawing.”
She perks up, lifting her gaze to mine.
“Did you know people used drawings to communicate before written language even existed?”
