I’m also waiting for the landscaper to show up. He’s black. This’ll be a first for me, because 99 percent of all landscapers in California are Mexican. But one of my clients swears this guy isn’t your everyday run-of-the-mill gardener: that he’s really a “landscape architect.” He actually does a design plan. She said he does amazing work, especially with ponds, those koi fish and all kinds of exotic plants. I like to spend my money “black” whenever I can, so this is kind of refreshing. He’s already twenty minutes late, but I’m not going to hold that against him.

A pile of mail is sitting on the counter, and I start sorting it—making stacks. At least ten invitations from clients—I drop them in the trash. Two or three letters are for Dingus, from different universities. He’s already gotten them from USC, UCLA, Stanford, and a bunch of other schools. He told me this would happen in his junior year. I never got a single letter from any college asking me to come for a visit. Jocks.

It’s so quiet in here. So still. Birds are chirping outside, and I realize it’s spring. The sun is bright. The kitchen looks like a photograph from a kitchen magazine. It’s so perfect. Too perfect, really. I did it all by the book. Bought the best of everything. And here it all is: The Wolf range. The Miele dishwasher. The Gaggenau ovens. The Sub-Zero fridge. But who really gives a shit what I cook on, what I clean my dishes in, or how I chill my food? And did I just have to paint the room butter yellow?

I find myself sliding down the wall until I land on the floor. I wish something good would happen to me. I’m not talking about a cookbook contract. I mean something that would break up the monotony of working too hard. In fact, I should be in my office right now, planning a party or working on a week-to-week meal plan for summer. I’m always planning. Always about to. And it’s almost always for somebody else. People I don’t even want to know. What they don’t know is that the joy of cooking is the cooking itself. It’s starting to get to the point where even the presentation is becoming passé. Because, after they eat it, it’s gone. No trace of joy is left.

My energy level is dropping. These are all negative thoughts, thoughts that won’t help me do what I’ve got to do. I need a jump. I hook my foot around my purse strap and pull it over to me. My prescription bottle rolls out and I get one of my pills, swallow it dry, but then realize I’m sitting next to the sink, so I get up and cup my hands under the faucet and sip the water from my palms.

Without even realizing it, I lean over and look down into the silver drain. I can’t see anything. It’s too dark down there. I keep looking anyway. I hope that girl isn’t pregnant. I know that’s what’s been bothering me, too, and I don’t know why I’m trying to pretend like it’s not. This isn’t something I can control, and I’m going to have to confront Dingus about it. I really don’t give a shit if he gets mad because I eavesdropped. I’ve spent the last sixteen years of my life, and his, raising him to be a responsible young man. Stressed time and time again the importance of getting a college education, especially for a black man. Instilled in him the importance of being honest, dependable, worthy. Strive to be the best even if he doesn’t become the best. That’ll be good enough. And how in the world is a baby supposed to fit into this picture? What if that girl decides to have it? Does this boy have any idea what it could do to his future? Please. Don’t let this happen, God. My son may be stupid, but he’s smart. He’s worked too hard. I’ve worked too hard to come to this.