The trips to the zoo, the riding of the bikes, the doughnut shop walks and eventually even story time.

All gone.

For most of her life, she’d blamed her brother’s illness for the demise of her family. But she knew that wasn’t entirely fair. Whitney had made decisions that irrevocably changed things. And now it seemed the relationships were too broken to fix.

A burnt smell wafted under her nose.

Shit. She pulled the half-blackened piece of French toast off the skillet and tossed it onto the plate with the others.

As Whitney reached for another piece of bread, the hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention. She spun around. Lauren stood in the doorway of the kitchen wearing a T-shirt and pajama pants, her hair piled high on her head in a messy topknot. She was leaning against the doorframe, her eyes narrowed behind the lenses of her glasses.

Whitney shivered. How long had she been standing there?

“Good morning,” Whitney said, clearing her throat.

“Good morning.” Lauren smiled, pushing off the wall and stepping into the kitchen. “Can I help with anything?” Her face was shiny, eyes bright.

“Um...” Whitney glanced around. “Nope. I’m actually almost done. Can I get you anything to drink? Orange juice? Milk? Water?”

Her gaze drifted to the coffee maker, half-filled. “Do you mind if I have a cup of coffee?”

“Sure, I guess.” After wiping her hands off on a nearby towel, Whitney took a mug out of the cabinet and moved over to the coffee maker. Whitney hadn’t started drinking coffee until she had Amelia. Living off of three hours of sleep, caffeine was a must. Oh, well, I’m not Lauren’s mother. Whitney poured hot coffee into the mug and then turned toward Lauren. “Would you like creamer or anything?”

“No, black is good.”

“Ookay.” Dan used to drink his coffee black, too, but Whitney put so much creamer in hers it was more of a tan color. She often joked that she’d like some coffee with her creamer.

As Lauren sipped on her cup of straight caffeine, Whitney went back to making the French toast.

“So, have you lived here long?” Whitney asked after a couple of minutes of silence.

“No. Not long.”

“Where did you move from?”

“Oh.” Lauren shrugged, both hands wrapped around her mug. “We’ve lived a lot of places.”

Not really an answer. “Like where?”

“Sorry I slept so late.” Amelia walked into the kitchen, red cheeks, her mouth open in a yawn, her hands high above her head. It reminded Whitney of when she was younger and she’d crawl in bed with her on Saturday mornings, sleep-drunk.

“Actually, you’re right on time. Breakfast is made.” Whitney slid the plate of French toast in front of Lauren.

“Mo-o-om,” Amelia whined. “You know I’m trying to watch my carbs.”