It really was a good day. Sierra and I spent half the afternoon helping each other staple borders and rearrange bulletin boards—the mindless, colorful kind of busy work that lets you breathe a little. When we ran out of hands, the new teacher down the hall, Trevor, jumped in to help us for a little, holding the ladder and passing up rolls of tape like we’d all been working together for years.
I told Sierra about the test then, but only the bare minimum. She didn’t push, and I didn’t elaborate.
I knew she’d understand—reallyunderstand. She’s got two kids now, but she also had a miscarriage and months of trying before her firstborn. She’s been where I am. But somehow that makes me feel even sillier for falling apart this early.
It’s only the first month.
People try for years.Years.
I have no right to feel this heavy. This sad. This…broken.
I push the thought away and head to the kitchen, reaching for the lid of the slow cooker, so I can check on the roast I was so proud of myself for starting before school, already picturing Mason walking in tonight and bragging about it.
But the second I lift the lid, my heart stops.
It’s raw.
Completely raw.
Uncooked, pink, still half frozen, and sitting exactly how it did when I pulled it from the freezer.
“You have got to be kidding me.” The words fall out in a string of breath and disbelief as I let my head drop back toward the ceiling.
The slow cooker light is off.
I never turned it on.
A hopeless little laugh bubbles up—half hysterical, half exhausted—and I press my palms into my eyes, trying to hold back the sting that hits way too quickly.
“Great. Just great,” I mutter to the empty house. “I can’t even cook a roast.”
This was supposed to be dinner for the next two nights. My big responsible-wife moment. Now it’s a pink, uncooked brick sitting in broth.
So I call Maureen. Because if anyone can save this, it’s her.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Maureen.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Quick question—what’s the fastest way to cook a roast?”
There’s a little laugh in her voice already. “Well, that depends, sweetheart. Is it thawed?”
“Yeah, it’s thawed.”
“Mmm. Well, I usually do low and slow. Seven to eight hours in the oven or slow cooker, but if it’s on high it’ll cook faster. That tends to make it tough though.”
Of course. Low and slow. The opposite of what I need right now.
“So…not by tonight?” I look at the clock like it might magically change.
“Probably not,” she says gently.
I close my eyes and let out a sigh that feels too dramatic for a hunk of meat. “You’re gonna laugh at me.”
“Why’s that?” she asks, and I can practically hear her smile.
“I had this thing in the slow cooker since nine this morning, and just realized I never turned it on.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then, “Oh nooo.” She laughs, not mocking, just amused. “That happens to the best of us! You could still make it and save it for sandwiches tomorrow. Throw it on low and shred it in the morning.”
