Page 64 of The Infiniteness of Yesterday
“Mommy!” Roe cries, jumping off her stool and running over to me. She throws her arms around me and nearly knocks the breath from my lungs thanks to her cast slamming into my hip bone.
“Hey, Monster. I missed you.” I kiss the top of her head.
“You should’ve seen the way Grandma had to give me a bath, so I didn’t get my cast wet,” she giggles. “It wassofunny.”
“You gave her a bath?” I ask, shoulders sagging.
“I thought yesterday was probably draining for you and since you worked a full day today…” My mom trails off. “I wanted to help however I could.”
Fuck. I’m going to cry.
I turn away and open the refrigerator to grab a drink, using it as an excuse to hide my face to get my shit together.
“Thank you,” I say, shutting the fridge door and popping the tab on the soda can.
“You’re welcome. Roe and I are just finishing up the second batch of cookies, but I can send you off with the first if you’re ready to go. There’s lasagna too. You can take it to go or heat it up and eat here.”
“I’d love some lasagna.”
She points to the pan still sitting out and I make myself a plate, popping it in the microwave to nuke it.
When the lasagna is warmed, I grab a fork from the drawer and sit down at the same kitchen table that’s been there since I was a little girl.
My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I skipped lunch. I dig into the lasagna, bringing the first bite to my mouth. I nearly scald my tongue but catch myself just in time and blow on the bite.
“These cookies are going to be so good,” Roe says to my mom.
“The best,” she agrees.
While they finish the cookies, I scarf down my dinner and wash up the plate when I’m done.
“You look tired, honey,” my mom comments, taking my cheeks in her hands after she’s washed them.
“I’m always tired,” I counter. And I still have schoolwork to conquer before I crash.
She frowns and smooths my hair back from my forehead. I might be an adult now, but I’m still her baby the same way Roe will always be mine.
“I’m worried about you.” She frowns and lets me go.
Roe, thankfully, has run off to hang out with my dad before we go so she can’t overhear.
“Please, don’t worry about me.”
“I can’t help it.” She pulls a glass container out of the cabinet. “Can I at least send you home with some lasagna for tomorrow?”
“That would be great.”
She cuts up the lasagna—giving me a much larger portion than necessary, more than enough for me, Roe, and even Jameson—and secures the lid on top.
“You’re working too hard,” she says, sliding the container my way. “If things are too much?—”
“They’re not,” I groan.
“If theyare,” she reiterates, “you know your dad and I are always here for you. You can always move back in, so you have the extra help.”
I shake my head. I can’t do that to them. They don’t need to deal with my bullshit.
“I’m good, Mom. I promise. It’s just a lot going on right now.”
