The skin behind my ears prickles as I reach for the coffee maker again. This time my fingers make contact with the pot.
I jerk my hand back and my eyes strain to focus on the source of my pain.
I blink twice and recenter.
I reach for the pot a third time, forcing my mind to connect to my hand to connect to the object in front of me.
My ears prickle again.
“Mom.”
I shake my head.
“MOM.”
I spin around to find my son’s hand on my forearm. Which is connected to my hand. Which is holding a spatula.
“What? Sorry.”
“The pancakes are burning.”
“Shit.”
I flip them hastily and set the spatula down.
Jay sighs. “I got it, Mom.”
“Sorry,” I say, pressing a hand to my temple, trying to bring back whatever important thoughts had pulled me away from my kids’ breakfast … and something else … coffee.
“You seem off today,” my oldest says in a somber tone. “Do you want me to stay home?”
“What? No,” I say with a forced laugh. “I’m fine. Just … a little distracted.”
“Yeah. That’s what I’…
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