Page 22 of This Broken Heart
I did not expect to find Erin, bright-eyed and busy-tailed.
And is that… cake?
She’s already dressed and ready for the day in jeans and a pink t-shirt. Her curly hair has been bullied into a topknot. She wears a handkerchief headband. It’s looks cute. The kids are going to love it.
But she’s looking at me with horror on her face.
No, I don’t run around in public in just my sweats, but this is my house. Am I going to have to start each morning fully dressed and raring to go?
Judging by the look on her face? Yes. That’s exactly what I have to do.
A little judgmental for a girl with Sesame Street plastered across her chest, but what do I know?
I’m about to turn around when she thrusts a mug of coffee into my hands. “Kids sleep okay?”
I accept the mug, staring down at its dark contents. “Yeah. Maven only woke up once.”
“I can always grab her when she does that.” Erin offers.
“I don’t mind.” I sip the coffee, stifling a happy groan. “Is this the coffee from my cupboard?”
She grins. “Yes.”
I stare down at it. “How?”
“Is that a good how or a bad how?”
I take another sip, nodding. “Good. Did you add something?”
“A pinch of salt. Helps even out the bitterness.” A timer goes off and she bends down, pulling a coffee cake out of the oven. Steam swirls out of the oven, filling the kitchen with the scent of cinnamon and butter. I’m instantly transported back to my mom’s kitchen on Christmas day. Except my mom’s kitchen didn’t have a buxom redhead bending over to pull things out of the oven.
Trace wanders in, rubbing his eyes. “I smell doughnuts.”
“Close.” Erin says, grinning at him. “It’s coffee cake.”
“Cake for breakfast?” He lights up, looking over at me. “Is that even allowed?”
His expression warms my heart. I grin at him. “You bet.”
Erin gets the kids to finish their breakfast and drink their milk. My kids usually pick at their food like birds. I gave up trying to make them finish their food long ago. She makes it look easy.
When they’re done eating, they all disappear down the hallway, reappearing in record time, dressed and pressed. Trace wears his favorite sweater and khakis. Maven is clearly proud of the sweater dress Erin put her in. She’s got little pigtails that dad is going to lose his ever-loving-mind over. Even Trace has his hair gelled.
I don’t think he looked that good on picture day.
They all move into the kitchen, where Erin starts throwing together a cold lunch.
“Not doing hot lunch today, bud?” I ask, watching her pull out a loaf of bread.
“Nope. It’s fish sticks.”
“You like fish sticks, right?”
He makes a face. “No. They’re disgusting.”
I make him fish sticks regularly. And this kid has always eaten them. Makes me wonder how much of their light appetite has to do with my cooking.
I take Trace to school, but the whole fish sticks thing is really bothering me. I glance back at him in the rearview. “You really don’t like fish?”