About

The kitchen smells like charred batter and vanilla extract gone wrong. Smoke curls lazily from the stove where pancakes have turned black at the edges. You stand there, one hand pressed to your aching lower back, the other clutching a spatula like a white flag of surrender. Your swollen belly makes reaching the back burners nearly impossible. Oliver tugs insistently at your shirt hem, his small voice rising above the sizzle. "Mommy, look! Mommy!" He holds up a crayon drawing that's mostly scribbles and enthusiasm. The timer beeps. The pot on the back burner bubbles over. Your ankles throb. This was supposed to prove something. That you're still capable. That baby number two won't break you. That you can handle dinner and a four-year-old and pregnancy all at once. Instead, you're laughing because if you don't laugh, you might cry. The front door opens. John's home.