The wooden spoon scraped the bottom of the aluminum pot and sent a tiny fleck of scorch into the yellow oatmeal.

My phone screen lit up on the yellow laminate counter, buzzing twice against a dried ring of morning coffee.

Max had texted a photo of a heavy silver cardstock invitation, embossed with thick white lettering that caught the light in his kitchen.

“You and the girls are down for three spots, unless you magically found a date,” the message under the photo said.

Chloe tugged at the denim of my jeans from behind my knees, her thumb buried deep in her mouth as she hid her face against my leg.

“More,” Chloe said.

I scooped two spoonfuls of gray oats into her blue plastic bowl and wiped the counter with a wet rag.

Lily sat at the small wooden table, her sneaker catching the metal chair leg with a steady, rhythmic click.

“Is Dad getting married in May?” Lily asked.

“May fourteenth,” I said, tugging down the bottom hem of my shirt.

“Is that why he bought those heavy silver invitations?” Lily asked.

“He sent a picture of one,” I said.

“Claire said silver matches everything,” Lily said, repeating the words slowly, as if she were reading them off a classroom blackboard.

“Did she?” I asked.

“She told Dad that old stuff doesn’t go with silver,” Lily said, her shoe hitting the chair leg with a louder thud.

Chloe dropped her plastic spoon on the linoleum with a wet slap and pointed her small hand down.

“Up,” Chloe demanded.

I lifted Chloe onto my hip and bent down to pick the dirty spoon up off the floor.