Chapter 9 #3
I tap the egg against the counter the way Emma showed me, and a crack appears. Progress.
“Now open it,” Emma says, and she puts her tiny hands over mine, guiding me as I pull the shell apart. The egg drops into the bowl, clean, no shells this time, and I look over at her and smile.
She’s still concentrating hard, her little face serious, making sure we’re doing it right.
And it hits me suddenly that to Emma, this isn’t strange.
She doesn’t think that just because I’m an adult that I should automatically know how to do everything.
She saw an opportunity to help, to teach something she knows, and she took it.
There’s no judgment in it, no confusion about why an adult doesn’t know how to crack an egg properly.
Just this straightforward willingness to show me.
Despite all of her apparent behavioral issues—the locking nannies in bathrooms, the plate-throwing, the hair-cutting—I can tell that Emma is a kind person.
She’s good inside. She’s just hurting and doesn’t know how to express it, so it comes out sideways in all these aggressive ways.
But underneath that is this little girl who wants to help, who wants to connect.
“Thank you for showing me that,” I say, and the gratitude is genuine, humbling. “That was incredibly helpful.”
Her face transforms, lit from within by the pride of a teacher whose lesson has landed. “Can I help with something else?”
“Absolutely.”
I start stirring the eggs in the bowl—just breaking up the yolks, mixing everything together—and then I dump them into the hot skillet.
They sizzle immediately, spreading out across the pan, and I stare at them trying to figure out what to do next.
Do I just stir them? That has to be it, right? Keep them moving so they don’t burn?
I grab a spatula from the container of utensils on the counter and start stirring the yolks and whites into a pale yellow swirl, pushing them from one side of the pan to the other, watching the liquid coalesce into soft, creamy curds.
“You can help me wash the strawberries,” I tell Emma, pointing to the container on the counter.
“Okay!” She hops down from her stool and drags it over to the sink.
We work in a companionable, focused silence—me at the stove, her at the sink, each small task a brick in the foundation of our morning.
She treats each strawberry with a jeweler’s care, placing them one by one on a plate in a careful, radiant circle.
It’s kind of nice, actually, working alongside her like this—not trying to entertain her or manage her behavior, but doing a task together.
By the time everything’s done—eggs are fluffy and only slightly brown on the edges, toast is toasted, strawberries are washed—I’m actually feeling pretty accomplished. I cut Emma’s toast diagonally the way she likes it, put everything on plates, and carry them over to the small kitchen table.
She climbs into her chair, surveys her plate, and her face clouds. “I want my Ariel plate.”
I look at the plate—white with Princess Jasmine on it, in her turquoise outfit with the tiger—and then back at Emma.
“The Ariel plate is in the dishwasher,” Leo says from the living room, not looking up from his papers.
Emma folds her arms across her chest. “Then I want the Flounder one.”
“That’s also in the dishwasher.”
“I don’t want Jasmine.” She pushes the plate away with a definitive scrape of ceramic on wood, her lower lip emerging in a pronounced pout.
“But Jasmine is so cool,” I say, sitting down across from her with my own plate—plain white, no princesses. “She has a pet tiger. A whole tiger! That’s basically the coolest pet you could possibly have.”
“I don’t care about her tiger.”
“And she goes on that magic carpet ride and gets to see the whole world from up in the sky. Wouldn’t that be amazing?”
Emma’s unmoved. She pushes the plate away even farther, harder this time. “I don’t care about that. I want the Ariel plate or I’m not eating.”
Her arms are folded, her chin jutted out stubbornly, and with her wild blonde curls sticking up at odd angles and that fierce little expression on her face, she looks like a tiny dictator making demands.
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing because it’s actually kind of adorable, even though I know I’m supposed to be handling this situation like a responsible adult.
The thing is, I get it. I really do. It’s not about the plate—it’s never about the plate.
It’s about control. Emma doesn’t have control over anything in her life right now.
Her mom left, her dad keeps bringing home new nannies who leave or get driven away, her whole world is unpredictable and scary.
But she can control which plate her breakfast goes on, and that matters to her.
I look from her mutinous face to the offending Jasmine, then back.
“Okay.”
Her single eyebrow arches in surprise. Victory was supposed to be harder-won. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
I stand up and walk over to the dishwasher, pulling it open.
It’s full of dirty dishes—more plates with Disney princesses, some bowls, cups, silverware.
I spot the Ariel plate right away because it’s the brightest thing in there—Ariel in the center with her red hair and emerald tail, surrounded by all these vibrant blues and purples and teals, little fish and seahorses scattered around the edges.
I pull it out and carry it to the sink, turning on the hot water and grabbing the dish soap from the counter.
“You know,” I say over my shoulder, scrubbing at a dried speck of yogurt. “There’s a better way to get what you need.”
Emma’s watching me, curious now instead of defiant. “What way?”
“When you whine or push things, it makes it hard for people to hear what you actually want. It sounds like you’re just being difficult, not like you’re telling me something important.”
“But I did ask. I said I wanted the Ariel plate.”
“You did,” I agree, rinsing the soap off the plate under the warm water. “You did. But the way you said it—the tone, the push—made the message harder to receive.”
Emma tilts her head, processing this. “So how should I say it?”
“You could try saying ‘Annie, I really like the Ariel plate better. Could you please wash it for me so I can use it?’ Clear. Direct. Kind. It gives people the information they need and makes them want to help you.”
“What if they still say no?”
“Then they say no, and you have to decide if it’s worth being upset about or if you can be okay with the plate you have.
” I dry the Ariel plate with a dish towel and walk back to the table.
“But most of the time, if you ask respectfully, people will try to help you if they can. People like being helpful. It makes them feel good.”
“Do you feel good?” Emma asks.
“I do, actually. I feel good that I could wash your plate for you.” And it’s true—I do feel good about it, which is maybe weird but whatever. “But I feel even better that you’re listening. Do you understand?”
I transfer her eggs and toast and strawberries from the Jasmine plate to the Ariel plate and slide it across the table to her.
Emma’s whole face erupts into a sunrise of a smile, beaming at the plate like I’ve just given her the greatest gift in the world.
She picks up her fork and shovels a huge bite of eggs into her mouth, and while she’s still chewing, she says, “I learned that if I ask you nicely you’ll wash my dishes for me. ”
I laugh, a real laugh that comes out before I can stop it. “You know what? That’s one way of looking at it. I’ll take it.”
As I take my seat, I catch a flicker of movement in the periphery.
Leo is watching from the archway, his red pen suspended above his papers.
On his face is an expression I can’t quite categorize—part surprise, part contemplation, something perilously close to approval.
It’s there for only a second before he notices my gaze and snaps his attention back to his work, his features rearranging into their usual mask of detached neutrality.
I turn back to my breakfast, trying to ignore the weird flutter in my stomach.
I second-guess myself immediately. Was that right? Should I have enforced the Jasmine plate? Taught a lesson in disappointment? Am I being manipulated by a four-year-old?
But the feeling in my gut isn’t one of being steamrolled.
It’s the opposite. I gave her a measure of control within a framework of respect.
I named the dynamic. She engaged. For a kid whose primary mode has been violent, nonverbal protests, this—a negotiated settlement over a breakfast plate—feels like a big shift.
A tiny win, hard-won and fragile, but a win nonetheless.
I’ll take it. I, who an hour ago was a stranger to scrambled eggs, am in no position to refuse small victories.
Emma’s eating her eggs happily now, humming something under her breath that might be “Part of Your World” from The Little Mermaid, swinging her legs under the table.
Between bites she’s chattering away about preschool—something about how some kid named Tyler still won’t share the dinosaur toys even though Miss Kelly said sharing is caring, and how the class guinea pig is named Mr. Whiskers, which Emma thinks is a silly name because guinea pigs don’t even have whiskers, and how at ballet on Wednesday she learned how to do a plié which is when you bend your knees but keep your back very straight.
I’m listening, nodding along, asking questions when it seems appropriate, but every once in a while I can feel another set of eyes on me.
I glance toward the living room and catch Leo looking our way before he quickly drops his gaze back to his papers.
It happens twice more in the span of ten minutes, and each time it makes me weirdly self-conscious, like I’m being evaluated on my performance as a breakfast-maker and conversation-haver.
Which I probably am, if I’m being honest.