Chapter 6: One Plate Too Many

Kurt made pancakes for dinner.

He stood at my stove in his undershirt with a dish towel over his shoulder, and he flipped them too high.

Maisy sat on the counter and counted every flip out loud.

"One! Two! Daddy, that one's a circle!"

"That one's a heart."

"It's a blob."

"It's a blob with feelings."

She laughed so hard she slid off the counter and he caught her under the arms.

I stood in the doorway with a mug of tea and watched my daughter shriek with joy.

I had not heard that sound in months.

My eyes stung, so I looked at the clock until it passed.

We ate at the table, three of us, with syrup on everything.

Maisy fed him a bite from her fork and he pretended to be a hungry bear.

After the third pancake she stopped, rubbed her stomach, and said in a surprised voice, "I'm full."

Kurt's hand stopped on the table.

I knew what the word did to him, because it did the same to me.

"Good," he said, very softly. "That's good, baby."

I put her to bed myself.

She would not let go of the stuffed rabbit, and she asked twice if the plane would come back for Daddy in the morning.

"No," I said. "I think he's staying."

"Promise?"

"I can't promise for him."

"I'll ask him."

She was out before I reached the door.

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