We needed more soy formula before Tuesday, and the checking account was already down to double digits.
I closed my eyes and let the rhythm of the wooden glider chair fill the silence.
The ceiling fan spun on low, its shadow crossing the stenciled yellow ducks Brandon had never finished painting on the wall.
He had left the paint tray on the top shelf of the closet, the roller dry and stiff, three months ago.
By nine o’clock, the sun was hitting the linoleum in the kitchen, turning the dust motes into bright specks over the sink.
Lila and Ivy were propped on the floor on a faded quilt, their eyes fixed on a soft red block they both wanted.
I leaned against the counter, the steady hum of the plastic baby formula mixer vibrating through the laminate wood.
My arms felt heavy, like lead weights had been sewn into my sleeves during the three hours of sleep I had managed.
I opened my phone to check the joint account balance, hoping the direct deposit from my part-time bookkeeping work had cleared.
