Page 3 of Cooking Up My Comeback

By four in the afternoon, I’m balanced somewhere between a migraine and a full-body emotional collapse. I walk through the front door of my house carrying groceries that might be the last I buy for a while. The scent of peanut butter, crayon wax, and something unmistakably citrusy hits me.

“Tally?” I call out. “Why does it smell citrusy in here?”

“Mason tried to pour himself juice when I was helping Crew with his fishing tackle box.”

I sigh and set the groceries on the table while Tally appears to help. She’s seventeen and has been my right hand through everything—the divorce, the job juggling, the constant scramble to keep our little family afloat. She shouldn’t have to be this responsible, but shehandles it with grace that breaks my heart and fills me with pride in equal measure.

In the kitchen, Crew, my nine-year-old, sits surrounded by fishing lures and a half-organized tackle box that appears to have exploded across the table.

“Are those my good tweezers?”

He doesn’t glance up from his careful sorting. “I needed something pointy for the tiny hooks. Don’t worry, I cleaned them first.”

Mason, my four-year-old, zips past wearing nothing but dinosaur underwear and a Batman cape, yelling, “I’m the juice monster!” while waving a spatula.

I kneel to assess the orange juice situation—it’s worse than I thought, involving what appears to be an entire container’s worth of citrus carnage?—

“Sorry, Mom,” Tally says. “I tried to get it out, but it was a lot.”

“Thank you for all you do,” I say, then head to the kitchen to figure out dinner. At least my pantry remains well-stocked. Old habits from childhood summers spent in my grandmother’s kitchen mean I keep real ingredients on hand: fresh herbs growing on the windowsill, good cheese in the fridge, eggs from the farmer’s market. Feeding my family well remains one area I can still control.

Somewhere upstairs, something crashes. Mason shouts, “I fixed it!” which translates to:I broke it worse, but with excellent intentions.

I rest my forehead against the cool surface of the fridge door and breathe. The reality hits me: no paycheck, no health insurance, no daily routine that gets me out of this house and into a place where I’m competent and necessary. The math remains simple and terrifying. Three kids, a mortgage, and now no steady income. If my savings were there, it would be one thing, but I just dumped my entire nest egg into replacing the air conditioner unit at the start of summer.

The doorbell rings.

When I open it, Hazel stands there with a casserole dish and that expression only another mom can pull off: part battle-hardened, part benevolent fairy godmother.

“Emergency chicken enchiladas. Non-spicy. Green peppers on the side so Crew doesn’t accuse me of culinary sabotage.”

I might cry. Or propose marriage.

“You are a gift from the universe.”

“You coming to our Bookaholics Anonymous meeting tomorrow night? You need a distraction.”

I glance back into my noisy house with its small adventures and juice-based natural disasters. “Hazel...”

“Come drink wine with us and swoon over deliciously grumpy heroes.”

“Well, I did read the book this time.”

She grins. “Perfect. And crying into wine remains totally acceptable—that’s what book club exists for.”

My kids are fed, bathed, and temporarily contained with screen time and exactly three gummy worms each—the sacred bribe that buys me two hours of peace. I arrive at book club carrying homemade snickerdoodles I whipped up from muscle memory and nervous energy.

“Where’s Mads?” I ask, glancing around for Hazel’s oldest daughter when I step into the beautiful living room of the Hensley House, the Victorian beach house Hazel and Jack fixed up together last year.

“She and Spencer are fighting again. With my wedding to Jack coming up, it’s the last complication we need.” Hazel massages her temples, then catches herself. “Sorry, you’ve got enough on your plate without listening to my kid’s troubles.”

“That’s what friends exist for—sharing the madness.”

We settle in with wine and literary analysis, but eventually the jokes fade and we’re left with truth peeking out from behind the snack trays.

“So.” Michelle raises her eyebrows at me. “You okay?”

I shrug. “Define ‘okay.’ The diner’s closed for thirty days, and I’m never going back. Health department finally caught up withequipment that should have been replaced ages ago. So now I’m officially unemployed, the kids believe everything’s fine, and I’m about to master the art of creative grocery budgeting.”