Alice and I have been very busy this morning. First, we cleaned up the pillow beds where we slept on the floor together, the bars between us.

Then, Alice brought the flour and sugar, the baking soda, butter, milk, and eggs. She brought, too, a metal bowl, measuring cup, and mixing spoon. She brought all of it, and with Dolly watching us, I was the best mommy—showing her how to make muffins.

The apples were tricky. There was not much of them that wasn’t rotten. I salvaged what I could and left it in the bath tub. I flushed the rest down the toilet—a little at a time.

I knew the recipe by heart. Muffins are muffins when it comes down to it. Alice measured and mixed. We laughed and pretended to be having fun. She spilled the flour. I went to the bathroom to get a towel. And in the towel were the bits of apple I was able to save. I slid them into the bowl with my back to the camera, to Dolly and her watching eyes. Then I wiped the flour from the floor.

I sent her to the kitchen to get a wet sponge. And when she was gone, I filled the muffin tins.

* * *

When they were baked, we put frosting we made from powdered sugar just on one special muffin—the one in the middle on the edge of the tin with a brown stain. I told her it would make Mick feel special. Like we cared about him.

And then we sat and did Alice’s homework. We sat and played with the dolls. We sat and waited.

When the front door finally opened, it closed again with a loud bang. His footsteps were heavy, pounding the floor. He walked past us without saying a word. Not to Alice. Not to me. He went to his room in the back of the house and slammed that door as well.

We said nothing, Alice and I. We pretended not to notice him, though my heart was heavy and light all at once.

Heavy because he needed to be happy and calm and eat his muffin like a good boy.

Light because he was angry. And that meant something had gone wrong with Nicole.

Good Lord, is it terrible? Is it twisted that I feel a laugh rise inside my chest as I picture my strong-willed, tortured daughter sending him away after an unfortunate night? I am filled with joy where there had once been despair that my daughter uses men to fill the hollow spaces she spoke of in therapy.

I thought it would kill her, this behavior. But now I think it might just have saved her.

The door opens again and Mick emerges. How different he seems to me, now that I see his pathetic, broken heart.