He misses the catch, but that’s the worst thing that happens. It falls on the hardwood, not his foot. We’re safe.

I pick up his bottle, add it to the pile in my arms, and herd the kids outside.

Sally’s already on the front lawn spreading a blanket, which I choose to take as tacit approval of my breaking house arrest.

“I’ve got peanut butter and raspberry jam coming and cucumber salmon for the grown-ups,” she announces.

“How are you so fast?” I laugh from the top step.

“I can see the future.” She waggles her fingers at Charlie and gets a laugh out of him. “I’ve commissioned Jo and that Norwegian girl.”

“Sally.” I pause on the steps to gape at her. “You didn’t. Her feet!”

“Her feet are bandaged up, and she wants something to do. Gets her mind off things.” Sally starts away, waving her hand at me. “Best thing for all of us.”

I have to admit, I agree. The kids will keep my mind off things. I smile over my shoulder at them, Emma scooting down the stone steps on her bottom, getting her dress filthy, Charlie gripping the etched banister more tightly than usual. He’s so cautious. Today, it fits the occasion. Even so, it’s a picnic day, a bright day, a distraction day, a quickly over day.

I dump the bottles in the grass and notice a wet spot on the waist of my dress. Sticky. One of the bottles leaked on me.

The kids are already unscrewing the tops.

“Careful not to spill it. Keep it upright, see?” I say, knowing full well at least one of these things will get kicked over within ten minutes.

Charlie blows bubbles straight in Emma’s face, and she laugh-pouts, “Stop it, Charlie.”

I check the bottles and quickly find the offending one, the plastic cracked along the bottom, probably from Charlie missing that catch. This one’s mine, then.

I sit on my butt and blow a giant bubble that Emma scrambles over to pop. Charlie’s the best of us at bubbles. His creations float around us like fairies.

Avery trots out the back door with a pitcher of orange juice.

“Oh! Forgot cups.” She pirouettes.

Something slips.

Her foot slides off the step as if it had vanished from beneath her.

Her body goes graceless, disjointed, falling. The glass pitcher shatters as her hand hits the flagstones, and a second later, the rest of her hits with a thunk, her hand breaking her fall.

I let out a startled, “Oh no,” before I realize that her hand is still holding the broken pitcher.

Behind me, little Emma lets out a needle-sharp scream, and only then can I run, up the stairs, calling, “Avery, Avery, are you all right? Oh my God, oh my God.”