Page 4 of That Rush

“Then why are you doing it?”

“Because you haven’t slept, and you have a six-year-old who needs breakfast.”

“I can take care of my daughter.”

Heat climbs the back of my neck. The words came out too sharp.

Mom turns from the stove, but Dad keeps his eyes on me.

“No one here thinks you can’t,” he says.

The certainty in his voice drains the fight out of me. I look toward Josie. She’s still concentrating on the pancakes, either unaware of my tone or more interested in chocolate.

Mom sets a plate in front of her. “Syrup?”

“A little. Daddy pours too much.”

I stare at her. “Since when?”

“Since always.”

“I’ve made you pancakes twice.”

“And you did it both times.”

Dad coughs into his fist.

I carry the syrup to the counter and let Josie tell me when to stop. She watches closely, then gives me an approving nod.

“Perfect.”

I should know how much syrup she likes. I should know whether she eats the crust on toast and which cup she reaches for first. I know she sleeps with one foot outside the blanket and hates the seams in her socks. I know she sings when she brushes her teeth because I taught her the song.

Every small thing I don’t know: the syrup, the toast crust… is a testament to a morning when I wasn’t here.

Mom touches my arm as she passes. “Sit down. I’ll make yours.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You still need to eat.”

“Mom.”

Josie pauses with her fork halfway to her mouth.

I close my eyes and pull in a steadying breath. “Sorry.”

Mom gives my arm a gentle squeeze. “Coffee first.”

I sit across from Dad while Josie explains that school shouldn’t be allowed after someone dies because children need time to be sad without doing math. Dad listens with the same serious expression he uses during business meetings.

“That seems reasonable,” he says.

“Can I stay here?”

Her question is directed at me.

“You’re staying with me.”