THE BABY ALWAYS cried at dinnertime. Mackenzie understood—when she was just a few years younger, she’d cried at dinnertime too. She wondered how long it would take her little boy’s teeth to grow in so he could eat real food, like his daddy.
Brett got off work at 5:30pm and drove a half-hour commute. Mackenzie liked to get everything ready by 5:55pm and have a hot plate waiting when he walked in the door.
She planned his dinner while washing the breakfast dishes. Scrubbing coagulated goop from the bottom of the baby’s bottle, she imagined what Brett might say about a nice chop, pan-seared, with mushrooms and a hearty salad.
Wow, Kenzie, she imagined him gasping, this is delicious! You’re such a fantastic cook. And mother. And wife!
She would smile, modestly. Thank you, darling. It’s the least you deserve after working so hard all day.
There was salad left over—Mackenzie meal-prepped on Saturdays, so she could pack Brett’s lunch every morning and quickly return to the baby. All she had to do was fry up the meat and mushrooms.
Mackenzie picked up the good cleaver, an heirloom from her mother. She lifted her skirt and peeled plastic wrap off her leg, droplets of pink condensation raining down. Gritting her teeth, she sliced a thick slab off her thigh. After patting it dry, she seasoned it on all sides with salt, pepper, garlic powder, onion powder, and smoked chipotle.
She seared her flesh for three minutes per side, removed it from the heat, and tented it with tinfoil. Her rendered fat pooled in the pan, speckled with dry seasoning. She poured in sliced mushrooms and let them hiss until they gave up their juices and turned golden brown.
At 5:50pm, she slid the chop back into the pan to warm. She hurried to set Brett’s place at the dining table, but her leg buckled mid-step. She popped her knee back into place, berating herself as Brett pulled into the driveway.
By the time he opened the front door, his plate was perfect. Salad topped with rendered lardons from her biceps, sautéed mushrooms, and juicy thigh cooked to a perfect medium. Just the way Brett liked it.
‘Welcome home, honey!’ Mackenzie called from the kitchen. She didn’t eat with Brett unless he asked for her.
Brett took his seat at the table and tucked in. She hovered in the doorway, watching.
‘How is it?’ she finally asked.
‘Good.’
‘It’s good?’ He nodded, and she clasped her hands behind her back so she couldn’t chew her nails. ‘You like it?’
‘Mhm,’ he responded, glancing down at his phone.
‘Awesome. Well, enjoy!’ She knew she should ask him about work, but instead she sped back to the nursery, clutching the baby’s bottle. Part of her—this was so stupid—felt disappointed.
To cap off the evening, the baby fussed during feeding time. She kept trickling the warm blood down his throat, but her little boy wouldn’t swallow.
| 
