After I hung up, I opened my pantry. And I did what every stressed-out American parent does when they’re trying not to panic. I counted.
Two cans of green beans. One box of pasta. A bag of rice, the grains settled at the bottom like sand in an hourglass. Half a jar of peanut butter. An unopened bag of flour I was saving for… what, exactly? A better economy? A different life?
I shut the pantry door and leaned my forehead against the cool wood. Eight years. Eight years since my twelve-year-old daughter had dragged hunger into my kitchen and dared me to cast it back out. Eight years of extra plates, of stretching meals, of adding water, of whispering to myself, We’re okay. We’re okay. We’re okay. And still, here I was, counting cans like they were a measure of my moral fortitude.
The day Emma came home, the house started smelling like rosemary and onions at ten in the morning. I was chopping celery with the laser focus of someone defusing a bomb. Mark walked in, coffee mug in hand, and watched me rearrange the same three ingredients in a bowl.
“You’re doing that thing,” he said gently.
“What thing?”
