The morning everything shifted, my kitchen smelled of scorched toast and watered-down coffee.
Voices collided against the faded yellow walls, sharp and constant, like chaos on repeat.
I stood at the sink with my sleeves rolled up, wrestling with a drain that had been clogged for weeks, while three arguments exploded at once.
“Dad, my green socks are gone.”
“She won’t give me my eraser back.”
“He keeps staring at me.”
Somewhere between the noise, my youngest started crying.
Maisie was convinced her stuffed bunny had disappeared forever, even though it was tucked securely under her arm.
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