The realization stoked Imani’s anger. As she watched Philip monitoring pots on each of the stove’s four burners, she had the urge to complain that he was doing something wrong, burning the bottoms of the copper cookware or preparing exotic proteins that the kids wouldn’t touch. Unfortunately, her chef husband didn’t abuse pans, and plain old bacon graced the griddle.

“You really should use the fan so the whole place doesn’t stink of meat.” It was the only criticism that Imani could think of other than lambasting him for secretly using their home to prop up his business. She still lacked the energy for that fight.

Philip leaned right to flip a wall switch. The fan whirred loudly. “Didn’t want to wake you before,” he said.

“Are the kids up?”

Philip stirred a sauce pot, releasing the scent of stewing strawberries. “They will be once I get these crepes going.”

France’s pancake was Philip’s specialty. He made them buttery yet light. Never chewy. Seventeen years of marriage and Imani had yet to properly execute his recipe. Her efforts always resembled stretched-out pancakes with one extra-crisp side and another doughier edge.

Philip knew that everyone loved his crepes. Preparing them was a form of apology, Imani supposed, a consolation prize for failing to provide emotional support or consulting her about the home loan. But she didn’t want an edible mea culpa. She wanted Philip to acknowledge what he’d done wrong. More than that, she wanted him to make things right.

“I don’t know how much anyone will feel like eating,” Imani mumbled, even though the food smells had already drawn out her own appetite.

Philip flipped the bacon pieces with a pair of tongs. “Jay’s always hungry.” He shrugged. “I got up at five thirty and went to the restaurant only to remember that I’d told everyone to forget about brunch service last night. As long as I was there, figured I’d bring home some ingredients. No sense in letting food spoil.”

He was trying to keep his voice light and nonchalant, Imani realized, to avoid adding his sadness to her burden. She reminded herself that, as worried as she was about Melissa and the state of their house, Philip was dealing with his own tragedy, watching twelve years of blood, sweat, and tears evaporate due to circumstances beyond his control.

Imani relented. “Everything smells delicious.”

Philip flashed a small smile. “Maybe I should have done an all-day-breakfast diner.”

“A Michelin-starred diner,” she quipped.

Philip returned his attention to his pots. “A Michelin-starred takeout joint.”

Imani couldn’t think of a clever comeback that might counter Philip’s dejection. “I should get dressed,” she said. “We don’t know if the police will come back today.”