She rolls her eyes. Hannah has mastered the eye roll. It’s her favorite facial expression. It can be used when I’ve asked her to do something she doesn’t want to do. Or when I’ve said something so terribly uncool, she just can’t bear it. Or best of all, when I express any sort of love or affection.
“Eggs in two minutes,” I say to Liam.
“No rush. I’m gonna have some orange juice.” Liam goes for the fridge, but he’s not quick enough. Hannah shoves him aside to get to the quart of milk. He lets his sister get away with it without commenting.
“What are you all dressed up for, Liam?” I ask as I turn off the heat on the stove. Usually, my son wears jeans and a T-shirt, regardless of the weather. I’m just happy when they’re clean.
“Debate.” He finally gets his turn and grabs the orange juice from the fridge. He pours himself a heaping glass, so full that the juice is licking the edges, threatening to spill over. Like every other teenage boy in the world, Liam has a huge appetite even though his build is lankyand athletic. “We’re competing against Lincoln High after school.”
“Can I come to watch?”
Hannah rolls her eyes. “Seriously? Liam’s debates are mega boring.”
Liam smiles crookedly and takes a swig from his orange juice. “She’s right. It won’t be fun for you.”
I scrape the eggs onto a plate for him, giving him his portion in addition to the eggs I made for Hannah. I’ll make more for my husband later if he wants it—Jason should be back from his run before long. “It will be fun if you’re up there.”
“Okay, sure.” Liam digs into the plate of eggs. For some reason, I get a lot of satisfaction out of watching my children eat. It dates back to when I was breast-feeding. (Hannah says it’s super weird.) “These eggs are great, Mom.”
“Why, thank you.”
“What’s your secret ingredient?”
I wink at him. “Love.”
Hannah lets out the longest sigh I’ve ever heard. It lasts for at least five full seconds—which is a long time for a sigh. “Oh myGod, the secret ingredient is Parmesan cheese. Momalwaysput Parmesan cheese in the eggs. You know that, Liam. God, you’re such a…”
He lifts an eyebrow. “I’m such a what, Hannah.”
“You know what.”
For a moment, the two of them stare at each other, and it’s so quiet in the room that I could hear the coffee machine humming. But then Liam snorts loudly and goes back to his eggs. I envy his ability to ignore his sister’s irritability. If eggs are my superpower, ignoring Hannah is Liam’s. Nothing she says ever gets to him. And the truth is, despite their sparring, Hannah adores Liam. The minute she started walking, she was following him around. These days, he’s probably her favorite person in the house. I suspect I come in fourth, after Jason and probably her phone.
“Well, I think the eggs taste especially good today,” Liam says. And he smiles, blinking up at me with those eyelashes that Hannah complains are unfairly long. “Thanks, Mom. You’re the best.”
And Hannah rolls her eyes.
I love Hannah. I really do. I love her more than I love my own life. She’s my daughter. She’s my little girl.
But Liam is my favorite. I can’t help it. From the moment he was born and I became a mother, I knew no matter how many other children I had, he would be my favorite. Nobody else had a chance. Even if Hannah liked my eggs better and didn’t roll her eyes, it wouldn’t matter. Liam would still be my favorite.
He’s my favorite, even knowing what he’s capable of.
And I will protect him with every fiber of my being.
Chapter Two
ERIKA
Just as Hannah and Liam are finishing up their breakfast, the back door slams shut. It’s Jason, back from his jog.
About a year ago, I purchased a scale for our master bathroom. The first time my husband stepped on it, he was horrified. “Did I really get that fat, Erika?” he asked me about twenty times over the next several days. Followed by, “How could you let me get that fat?” By the end of the week, he made a solemn oath that he was going to get back in shape. He was going to eat right and exercise and get back to the weight he was when we got married. (To be fair, he was at least ten pounds overweight when we got married.)
At the time I laughed. But then he actually did it. He jogs every morning now. He doesn’t buy giant jugs of M&Ms. He switched from regular Coca-Cola to diet. (Or Coke Zero, which he says tastes much better than diet, although I am skeptical.) I don’t know much about whatthe numbers should be on the scale, but it’s obvious that at age forty-five, Jason is in the best shape of his life. I never noticed that he had been getting a gut until it vanished. And recently, when we got together with some other couples, another wife commented on my husband being “hot.” I was oddly proud. Although it made me feel like I need to start taking kickboxing or Zumba or something to firm up some of those soft, saggy areas on my middle-aged body.
“Erika!” Jason limps over to the stove to join me, his T-shirt damp with sweat. His knee has been acting up for the last few weeks, but he’s trying to push through it. “Are you making eggs? I’m starving.”
I crack an egg into the sizzling pan. “You got it.”
