Chaos erupted.
“He doesn’t know?”
I set my phone down.
“Apparently not.”
She looked toward the closed door and gave a tiny snort, but thankfully said nothing else.
A minute later, chaos erupted in the hallway.
I set my phone down.
One child had both shoes on the wrong feet.
Another announced, with perfect timing, that he needed the bathroom immediately.
The youngest started crying because she wanted to stay with me. Then somebody couldn’t find a stuffed rabbit they absolutely had to bring.
Johnny’s voice moved through several stages: calm, strained, bargaining, then pure surrender.
Real silence.
“Fine. Bring the rabbit. Just put your shoes on.”
I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing.
A few minutes later, the front door finally slammed shut. Silence filled the house.
Real silence.
No one knocked.
His mother and I looked at each other.
Then I sank deeper into my chair, stretched my feet farther into the warm water, and reached for my champagne.
I could get used to this.
For the next forty minutes, we had actual peace.
No one knocked. No one cried. No one asked me where anything was.
My phone rang.
His mother and I finished our face masks, refreshed the foot bath, and started debating whether opening the second bottle of champagne before noon was irresponsible.
Then my phone rang.
Johnny.
I answered.
“What happened?”
