“Do not judge me.”
He covered his mouth.
“Alan.”
Then a sound escaped.
A laugh.
A real one.
Rough but unmistakable.
I pointed the towel at him.
“This is your dinner too.”
He laughed harder.
And then, between breaths, he said, “Terrible.”
I froze.
He froze.
Then I narrowed my eyes.
“Did you just insult my cooking?”
His face changed.
For half a second, I thought he regretted speaking.
So I gasped dramatically.
“My own child.”
He stared.
“Betrayed in my own kitchen.”
His mouth opened.
“Burned.”
I stared at him.
“The bread is slightly overdone.”
He shook his head.
“Burned.”
I put one hand over my heart.
“This adoption was a mistake.”
The instant the words left my mouth, I knew I had made one.
Alan went completely still.
The smile disappeared.
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
I put the towel down immediately.
“Alan, no.”
His eyes went blank in the old way.
I moved slowly.
“I was joking.”
He stared at the floor.
“Bad joke.”
Silence.
“I am sorry.”
His breathing was shallow.
I stayed where I was.
“I will never joke about sending you away again.”
Nothing.
“That wasn’t funny.”
I waited.
“I was wrong.”
His fingers began moving.
Counting against his palm.
I wanted to touch him.
I didn’t.
Minutes passed.
The smoke detector had stopped.
The ruined garlic bread sat blackened on the counter.
Finally Alan went to the drawer, pulled out a sticky note, and wrote:
YOU SAID ADOPTION CAN’T END.
My eyes burned.
“That’s right.”
He looked at me.
“It can’t.”
His pencil remained in his hand.
“I’m your mother when I burn dinner.”
A tiny twitch.
