The smell of scorched butter drifted up from the back burner of the electric stove, thin and sharp enough to make my nose burn.

My mother stood at the kitchen island scraping a slice of burnt toast into the sink, watching my four-year-old daughter with a look of total disgust.

Emma sat swinging her legs in the tall wooden chair at the corner of the table.

She had on the new yellow sweatshirt I’d bought her for preschool.

Its price tag was still lying on my dashboard from the drive over.

Beside her, my sister Vanessa leaned on the refrigerator.

Vanessa was drinking a mug of black coffee.

She had her arms crossed tight over her chest and was watching her own five-year-old daughter eat pancakes.

Lily sat perfectly upright in her chair.

She took tiny, careful bites.

She didn’t look up from her plate.

I poured myself a glass of water and leaned on the counter.

It was seven forty-five in the morning, and the kitchen already felt too crowded.

Emma reached across her plate for the ceramic syrup pitcher.

Her elbow bumped the side of her pink plastic cup.

The cup tipped over and knocked the pitcher down.

A thick wave of brown syrup poured right into Emma’s lap.

The sticky puddle soaked straight into the front of the bright yellow sweatshirt.