She looked at him for maybe three seconds.
I watched her decide something behind her eyes.
Then she said, “Fine.”
Flat. Like the noon farm report on the radio.
She stood up. She rinsed her plate. She put it in the dishwasher the right way for once. And she went upstairs.
Her door didn’t slam.
I almost wished it had. You can argue with a slammed door.
Mason is eight. He’s Travis’s boy and mine. Kaylee’s half brother. Though nobody in our house has ever once used the word half about anything.
He had ketchup on his chin. And his eyes on me.
He was waiting for me to fix it.
That’s what I do in our family. I’m the one who calls the coach. Finds the permission slip. Knows where the good scissors are hiding.
I didn’t say a word.
I picked up the hotdish pan. I scraped the corner pieces into a Tupperware. I snapped the lid on.
