Chapter 12
The girls hoarded food for months.
Not every day.
Enough.
Harper hid crackers beneath her pillow.
Willa kept grapes inside a toy kitchen.
Maisie carried rolls in doll blankets.
June stuffed cereal into a Christmas stocking in March.
I found it funny once.
Then hated myself for laughing.
Rose corrected me gently.
“They’re checking whether tomorrow exists.”
That sentence stayed.
So we made food boring.
Always available.
No earning.
No clean plate requirement.
No emotional exchange.
Hungry?
Eat.
Not hungry?
Fine.
Dessert did not depend on whether they said Claire’s name correctly.
Nothing did.
One evening Harper deliberately said:
“Mommy Claire.”
Then stared at me.
Testing.
I answered:
“Yes?”
She looked toward her dinner.
Still there.
Good.
The next week Willa said it six times during soup.
Soup remained.
Maisie started asking questions about death.
June mostly wanted cookies.
Normal returning unevenly.
I also moved my schedule.
Not abandoning the organization.
Changing assumptions.
No overseas stretch longer than necessary without the girls coming for part or me returning.
Direct calls.
No scheduled theater.
If one child wanted to speak, she could.
Security people hated the unpredictability.
May you like
Good.
A father should occasionally be inconvenient.
