32
Griff
How many times does the calming effect of a midnight pancake need to be documented before it becomes an official scientific
fact? I’m convinced it’s better than Valium for settling Rob.
He’s having a rough night. I discovered him wandering the hall, confused and shivering, so I wrapped him and his toy cat up
in a crocheted beige cocoon, found some abandoned art supplies and set him up at the kitchen countertop. He puts a final touch
on his painting, a streak of yellow on his knuckle, eyes clearer than when I found him. It’s only been fifteen minutes, and
he’s knocked out a still life of a fruit bowl that puts my stick figures to shame.
Wide-eyed, he peeks out from the folds of the blanket like an elderly caterpillar, as I heft the four-liter bottle of milk
and ten-kilo bag of flour onto the countertop.
“They look very heavy, Mum!” he says.
“They are.”
Once, I needed them to be. They weren’t just ingredients back then; they were what I used to become strong.
Rob hums as he watches me whisk the mixture, swinging his feet under the chair. I flip a pancake, the batter hissing in the
heat. As the scents of warm butter and vanilla waft through the air, an ache sneaks up, sharp and stupid.
Back then, survival came first. Now it’s the ordinary things I didn’t get that sting the most. The safety. The softness. The chance to be a kid, like she was—wild hair, sticky fingers, no idea what it took to maintain the quiet.
A life that should have belonged to both of us.
I grip the spatula tighter and focus on the batter, trying to stay here with Rob. But the past creeps in anyway, unwanted,
unstoppable, pulling me back to the day when food saved me. This time, not on a plate.