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It had to.

“Mom!”Emma called from downstairs. “Is the pizza supposed to smoke?”

I burst into the kitchen to see gray clouds puffing out of the oven. The girls were at the table where I’d left them, only now, Macy was hiding behind Emma’s chair.

“Damn it!” I exclaimed, running to open the oven door. I hadn’t been able to find the tripod. I knew it was somewhere in the boxes of stuff I’d moved from Rochester, but I’d gotten so involved in looking I’d forgotten I hadn’t set a timer for the pizza. I always went by sight and smell, but that didn’t work when I didn’t stay in the kitchen.

Now, as I yanked open the oven door, a giant plume of gray billowed out, making me cough. Flames—actual flames—were licking the top of the oven. Then the sharp knife of the smoke alarm went off.

“Mommy!” Macy cried.

“It’s okay, baby!” I said, grabbing the oven mitts. “Girls, go to the other room.”

Emma grabbed Macy’s hand and pulled her into the hallway.

Half the pie was in flames on the oven element.

Alarm shrieking, I hauled the burning thing that used to be pizza out of the oven and stomped the flames out, getting blackened dough, tomato sauce, and burning cheese all over the bottom of my slippers. Then I stood up on a chair and pried open the smoke alarm.

For a moment I stood there panting as the room went quiet.

“Mom?” Macy’s little voice came from beyond the doorway.

The girls.

I whirled around, heart in my throat. I knew Macy was okay, but the realization of what I’d just put Emma through rocketed through me. Emma may not have Frayne’s, but she still had the headaches. She was sensitive to bright lights and loud noises.

I sprinted out into the hallway. Emma was crouched against the wall, her head in her hands, Macy leaning over her like a tiny doctor.

“Oh my god,” I said, running over. “Emma! Emma, honey…”

“I’m okay,” she said, muffled into her knees. She didn’t want me to worry. But when she looked up, I saw her eyebrows were sharply slanted. She was in pain.

“I’ll be right back.” I ran to the medicine cabinet for her painkillers.

Five minutes later, with Emma having swallowed her pill and Macy now crying, I sat in the hallway with a daughter under each arm, stroking the tops of their heads.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, shame rolling over me like water.

I couldn’t believe I’d been so focused on this stupid pizza—and on trying to sort the blog out myself—I’d lost sight of what was the most important thing.

“Mom, what are we going to do?” Macy asked. I knew she was asking about the pizza, but I pulled her head tight under my chin and answered the bigger question.

“I’m going to get us help.”

15

Michelle

Ahalf hour later, lights flashed across our living room window, sending my nerves scattershot.

“They’re here!” Emma cried. She and Macy bounded from their perch—pressed up in front of the plate glass—and raced to the door.

Emma seemed to have perfectly recovered from her flash headache, though I hadn’t recovered from my guilt over not seeing it coming. Or not mitigating it quickly enough. Or a thousand other ways I’d failed my kids while I’d been preoccupied. But I couldn’t think about that now. I’d asked him over to ask if he’d pose for the blog.

As my what—boyfriend? For a moment I blanched. I knew Will wouldn’t go for it–not at first, anyway. But I only needed a few shots—we could even save them up to cover a few months.

That was all there was to it.