Sometimes she would come and sit in the kitchen and watch them. She was welcome as long as she promised not to speak, and eventually they would forget that she was even there. When he made muffins, Matilda would help stir the batter, laughing as she stuck her fingers inside the bowl. When he made bread, he let her play with the dough and watched as she divided the pieces into a family, naming each rolled up ball. When they were together cooking in the kitchen, he never seemed to tire of being with her.

One morning, when he let her grease the muffin tin, she ended up licking the butter off her fingers and left shiny grease smears across the pinks of her cheeks. He dabbed at her with a wet napkin and she squealed and said, “Come here with your face!” She made a loud puckering sound against the side of his chin. Therese watched as he breathed her in. Sometimes, it looked to her as though he lingered too long, like somehow he knew there might not be enough.

One particular Saturday, Therese came downstairs to find Tim and Matilda cooking and Barbara already up, sitting at the kitchen table with a half-filled ashtray beside her. Matilda was sitting on a stool near the kitchen counter. Therese couldn’t tell if it was just her imagination, but Matilda always seemed smaller when Barbara was around.

“I couldn’t sleep last night.” As Barbara coughed, her chest heaved up and down. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

“Sorry, Ma.”

Therese could see that he was making Matilda pancakes in the shape of hearts.

“Do you want to help me mix?” he asked Matilda.

She slowly nodded her head.

“You let her get away with too much. Don’t let the girl make a mess.”

Therese hated that she called her “the girl,” like she was some stranger’s child on a bus. She got a coffee mug, clattering dishes loudly in response.

“It’s fine, Ma.” He looked up at Therese, which made her clatter even louder.

He went to the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of eggs and helped Matilda crack one against the side of the bowl. Therese sensed her delight as it slid effortlessly in, the yellow yolk perfect and unbroken.

“Again,” she whispered.

“You spoil her rotten.”

He ignored Barbara and held Matilda’s little hand inside his as they both cupped the fragile egg. Therese held her empty coffee mug to her chest. They were both so focused on getting it right, on delivering a second perfect yolk, that neither noticed the second crack, which started quietly and got louder and finally ended with an incredible boom. When she turned to look, Barbara was on her back, arms flailing. The chair had collapsed beneath her.

“What happened?” Tim shouted as he ran to her.

“Don’t touch me,” she cried.

He knelt down and held her hand.