Page 9 of The Art of Ruin

“You didn’t have to come this early,” I say.

“I prefer it,” she replies. “Gives me time to understand things before she gets back. That way I can go buy what we need to bake.”

That’s the right answer. I like the fact she won’t shove Letty in front of the TV but will teach her something meaningful.

I walk her through the kitchen, the routine, the structure. What Letty eats. What she avoids. What matters and what doesn’t.

“The green cup is for milk,” I say. “Never water.”

She glances at the cupboard. “Water goes in?”

“The yellow one.”

“Of course.”

There’s humor in her voice. Not judgment.

I continue. “Snack after preschool. No bananas unless she asks. She’ll say she wants one because she likes the idea of them. She doesn’t like the texture.”

“Noted.”

“If she gets quiet, she’s either tired or hiding something.”

“What kind of something?”

“Stolen cookies usually.”

That makes her smile.

I don’t.

“She can have one cartoon before dinner. Not two. She’ll negotiate.”

“I raised Isabella,” she says. “I know about negotiation.”

That earns a slight nod.

She’s competent, calm. She’s family and the closest thing Letty has to a grandmother figure.

It will suffice nicely until Friday.

“I’ll be back by six,” I say, grabbing my keys.

“She’ll be fine.”

I nod once. I believe her.

That’s not something I do easily. Some would call that growth.

By the time I reach the car, my sleeves are still rolled.

I fix that before I start the engine.

One cuff, then the other, buttoned, straight.

The fabric settles against my wrists, familiar.

By the time I reach the office, everything unnecessary has already been set aside.