As she laid down on the couch next to her youngest child out of four, reading Bella Tuscany by Frances May. She is engrossed in this book. She tunes everything out.

Even us.

Its quiet in this condo. All I hear is a humming sound from the fridge. I’ve only been here three hours. She has a cold, he’s antsy and asks if we want chicken out of a can. Soup he calls it. Then calls me a communist and her an atheist. She has a cold and refuses to drink Kevita flavored with tangerines. He’s yelling drink it! “Mother, drink it! I won’t. You can’t make me, she said. Three sips! He, bellows. Fine, she says, but I am not going to like it.

One. Face.
Two. No, I won’t do it.
Three. Fine.
Now, can I have my grilled cheese.