I always woke before the alarm. The room was cold, heavy with the smell of rust and damp concrete. I pulled on an old cardigan, tied back my hair, and went up to the kitchen.
I became the unpaid maid.
Eggs Benedict for Nathan. Pancakes for the kids. A salad with no dressing for Sable. She was terrified of gaining weight, but never skipped her morning whipped‑cream latte from the fancy espresso machine.
I cooked and plated according to the handwritten schedule taped to the fridge. Every task had to be completed down to the minute. If breakfast was five minutes late, Sable would purse her lips and say:
“You really need to manage your time better.”
Nathan usually came downstairs at ten to seven, tie already knotted, cologne still fresh.
“Morning, Mom,” he’d say without looking up from his phone.
“Soft‑boiled or hard today?” I’d ask.
“As usual. Thanks, Mom.”
His “thanks” always landed in the space between us like a coin tossed in a well.
Sable appeared last, always with the air of someone in high demand.
“Press my navy dress, please,” she’d say, already scrolling her emails. “I have a presentation at the club.”
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