The butter in the iron skillet was turning dark brown before I noticed the thin trail of gray smoke rising toward the ceiling fan.

Daniel didn’t look up from his tablet, but his gold pen tapped three quick beats against the face of his silver wristwatch.

“You’re burning the grease, Rebecca,” he said.

I pushed the heavy skillet off the burner and wiped my palm on my apron.

Grace came down the back stairs carrying her canvas backpack by one strap.

She was wearing her gray hooded sweatshirt with the frayed cuffs, her elbows pressed tight against her sides.

Her right hand was pressed flat against her lower stomach.

“I made two scrambled eggs,” I said, pointing to the ceramic plate on the counter.

Grace shook her head and pulled the frayed fleece sleeves down over her thumbs.

“My stomach feels tight,” she whispered.

Daniel laid his tablet flat on the placemat and leaned forward.

“If you think skipping breakfast gets you out of your morning…” He stopped halfway through the sentence and let his pen drop hard on the wood.

“We are not doing this attention routine again, Grace.”

Grace didn’t argue or defend herself.

She just turned around and walked back up the stairs, her cotton socks silent on the oak steps.

I pressed my lips together, turning my silver wedding band around my knuckle as I watched the empty stairway.

Grace had never walked away from a meal without a fight, especially on a Tuesday before volleyball practice.

“She barely touched her chicken last night either, Daniel,” I said.