Page 59 of The Goat Next Door

I barely get the deadbolt turned before Sophie comes barreling down the hallway like a guided missile.

“Dad!”

She hits my knees with enough momentum that the grocery bag swings wildly. A carton of eggs does a rhythmic dance against the jug of milk, and I have to catch the bag against my hip to keep it from hitting the floor.

I scoop her up with my free arm. One of her socks has migrated toward her ankle, and there is a thick streak of bright purple paint across her cheek.

Behind us, drifting from the kitchen, comes Lauren’s voice. “For the record, our child has successfully managed to unionize.”

I kick the door shut with my heel and drop my keys into the ceramic bowl by the entryway. “Against what?” I ask, shifting Sophie’s weight to balance the groceries.

“Bedtime,” Lauren calls out. “Vegetables. And specifically, pants that have buttons. Apparently, they are a fundamental violation of human rights.”

Sophie buries her face into my shoulder, her voice muffled against my neck. “Jeans are too scratchy, Dad.”

“That’s a serious accusation,” I tell her solemnly, patting her back. “We may need to open a formal investigation.”

“With snacks,” she says, popping her head up to look at me with wide, expectant eyes.

“Obviously.”

The kitchen looks like a craft store exploded.

Construction paper covers half the table, and glitter sparkles across the granite in impossible places, caught in the grooves of the wood. Paintbrushes are soaking in a bowl beside the sink, and there is cloudy, murky purple paint water sitting in my favorite coffee mug.

Lauren’s open suitcase sits near the hallway, packed with her usual, slightly unsettling level of precision. Every shirt is folded into sharp, military-grade rectangles, with her shoes lined up perfectly beside her sketchbooks.

She’s standing at the stove, stirring pasta sauce with a slow, rhythmic motion while some indie track hums from her phone.

She glances over her shoulder when I walk in, her hair pulled back in a loose, messy knot. She points toward the middle of the table with the wooden spoon.

I stop in my tracks.

Sitting in the center of the craft-induced chaos is a birdhouse.

Purple paint drips unevenly down the sides, and bits of craft glitter have fused permanently into the wood grain. To top it off, several uncooked penne noodles are glued across the roof in crooked, ambitious rows.

I stare at it for a long, silent second. “The noodles,” I say carefully, “are for…?”

“They’re shingles,” Sophie says, wiggling out of my arms to scramble back into her chair. “For the bird’s rain protection.”

“Right,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Of course. My mistake. I see the vision now.”

“It’s mixed media,” Lauren adds, leaning against the counter with a completely straight face, though her eyes are dancing with amusement.

I set the groceries down, and Sophie immediately grabs a brush, her tongue poking out the corner of her mouth with the intense, focused concentration of a surgeon.

“Don’t touch the west side yet,” she warns me. “It’s still curing.”

“There are specific sides now?”

“All houses have sides, Dad,” she says, as if I’ve just asked if water is wet. “And this one needs to be perfect.”

“Architecturally speaking, she’s very advanced,” Lauren says, turning back to the sauce.

I shrug out of my jacket and drape it over the back of a chair before sitting down. Sophie leans into my side, leaving a faint purple fingerprint across my flannel.

“You’re decorating me now?”