Mia made place cards.
Crayon on folded construction paper. MAMA in pink. NICK in blue. MASEN in green, spelled wrong, and she put Nick next to me, and when I ask why, she says, “Because that’s where you go, Mama. The cards are the rules.”
I don’t argue with the cards.
Nick arrives at six with Mason, who carries a grocery bag with both hands like it contains state secrets.
“I brought mozzarella,” Mason says. “The good kind. Dad said you probably have the bad kind.”
“I don’t have any kind.”
“See, Dad?”
Nick steps into my kitchen and looks at my dough. He picks it up. It sags between his fingers, grey and wet.
“Emily.”
“Don’t.”
“How much water?”
“A cup.”
“This is three cups.”
“The measuring cup was small.”
He puts the dough in the bin. Rolls up his sleeves, pulls flour from my c
