I laugh at him, and Dylan drops his hand from me and shakes his head. I grab the oven mitt and take the pizza out of the oven, putting it on the square so I don’t burn the counter. “Dig in, boys,” I tell them and turn around to go slip two slices of bread in the toaster.

“What are you doing?” Justin asks me.

“I’m making myself dinner.” I look over at him and open the pantry door and find my favorite, taking it out.

“You’re eating toast for dinner?” He throws down his pizza and glares at me.

“No, I’m not eating toast for dinner,” I say. “I’m eating peanut butter toast for dinner.”

“That’s not dinner.” He glares at me, and I just shrug, turning around when my toast pops up and smearing peanut butter on it. “You can’t just eat toast.”

“Why not?” I ask, getting on the stool I always sit at, and it dawns on me that we have assigned seats.

“There is no meat,” he says, chewing another bite. “It’s toast.”

“And it’s my favorite,” I say, taking a bite of the toast.

“It’s gross,” Dylan says while he chews. “I never want to eat it again.”

I roll my eyes at him. There may have been a time or two that peanut butter and bread were the only things I could afford, and there may have been a time or two he hated it but ate it because there was nothing else to eat. “It’s not gross.”

“We ate it once for a whole month,” he says, and I laugh.

“It was a week, and it was just for lunch,” I say, and he shakes his head.

“You still need to eat something,” Justin says, and I laugh.

“I’m still full from lunch,” I say. “And this is what I want to eat.” I point at the plate. “Now leave me alone or I’ll eat your pizza,” I say to Dylan who looks away.

For the rest of the meal, Dylan and Justin talk hockey, and when I’m done, I get up and start cleaning the kitchen. “Where is your vacuum?” I ask Justin, and he looks at me. “What?”

“You’re not cleaning the house,” he says almost as if I kicked him.

“I’m just going to pass the vacuum and maybe do the mopping,” I say, and he shakes his head.

“The woman comes Monday and Friday,” he says, and I look at him.

“What woman?” I ask him

“Cristine,” he says. “Nice lady. She also does the laundry, and she buys the food.”

“You have someone who does your laundry?” I ask him, although I don’t know why I’m surprised.

“No,” he says. “We have someone who does our laundry.”

“Oh, no, buster,” I say. “We do not. I do my own laundry, and I’ll do yours, too.”