Frank dropped the spatula.
Neither of us acknowledged what had happened.
He only placed the pancake with the fewest burned edges onto my plate.
Five months later, my mother died.
A brain aneurysm took her so suddenly that my final ordinary memory of her was a conversation about whether I had put away my shoes.
Our house quickly filled with relatives.
They spoke quietly in hallways, glancing toward Frank whenever they believed I was not paying attention.
“He isn’t her real father.”
“Her aunt could take her.”
“He’ll want to start over.”
The night after the funeral, I curled beneath the kitchen table with my knees against my chest.
Frank found me there shortly before dawn.
Without asking why I was hiding, he sat down on the floor beside me.
“Are you leaving?” I whispered.
