It had been one of the selling points of the house, this kitchen. There was plenty of space for Janine to prep the family meals, with the bar—really just an extended Formica countertop, its off-white color an easily stained mistake—providing a place for her two girls to gather, do homework, tell Janine about their day, receive instruction. She did not realize, at the time, that it would be the place where she would helplessly watch them become both like her and unlike her. Back when they were little, she’d thought herself capable of imparting to her children the traits of her own that she wanted them to have, and teaching them to discard the ones she didn’t, in the same way she might show them how to prep vegetables or chicken for a recipe. But Beth had picked up the stubbornness that had never served Janine well, and Christine, who was volunteering at church camp for the fifth week in a row, had adopted Janine’s habit of relentless, dull self-sacrifice.

It was a truth Janine was just now arriving at: you had very little control over who your children would become. They would be you, but the worst, most useless parts of you. Last night she’d said as much to Rick, as he was getting into bed, and he had looked at her as if a snake had slithered out of her mouth. It went against everything he believed and worked for, and he had looked both hurt and disgusted before saying, “You know that’s not true, honey.”

Within minutes he was asleep and snoring, leaving Janine to wonder, when was the last time she had heard her husband call her by her actual name? With Rick it was always honey, sweetie, babe, or—worst of all—nothing, just the implied you. Janine found that she had been overcome more and more often, since returning from Sarasota, with thoughts and musings like these, and she could barely restrain herself from repeating them. No wonder she couldn’t write: who knew what she might say?

“There is nothing a person can do about a storm, Beth,” Janine said. She’d put her notebook aside and was now slicing peppers and onions for a ratatouille.

“Mom, someone has to warn people,” Beth said. “Meteorology saves lives. Besides, this is my career. I have to take risks in order to advance.”

“Risks!” Janine said, waving her knife, one eye suddenly watering. “Isn’t life risky enough as it is? Isn’t it bad enough to wake up in the morning?”