Renee pressed her manicured index fingernail to the counter glass as the electric stove timer gave two beeps.

It was seven o’clock on a Tuesday morning, and the kitchen island was buried under brown paper lunch bags, plastic sandwich tubs, and three bread wrappers.

“That’s four spoonfuls of clover honey on a single slice, Margaret,” Renee said.

Her voice had the tight, clean ring of a hospital floor manager juggling three shifts before lunchtime.

“A tub of that costs six dollars at the store now.”

“Caleb likes it spread right out to the crust,” I said.

I put the honey jar down beside my blue ceramic mug, which sat on the breakfast nook.

Caleb poked his tongue into the gap where his front tooth used to be and watched the yellow drop puddle on his whole wheat slice.

“Grandma, do bees sleep at night, or do they just stay in the hive and talk?”

“They stay in the hive,” Chloe said, winding a lock of dark hair around her index finger as she shoved her middle school English novel farther down into her backpack.

“They have to guard the queen.”

Renee lifted the honey jar, cleaned a sticky smear off the plastic rim with a damp paper towel, and shut it away in the upper cupboard behind the oatmeal.

“We’ve got twenty minutes until the carpool turn, Chloe.

Go get your jacket.”

I ran a sponge over the kitchen counter while Renee checked the digital clock on the microwave.

The blue mug sat by my elbow, untouched, going cold beneath the ceiling fan.

“Did you get the laundry towels from the casita done?” Renee asked.

She didn’t turn around as she brushed the crumbs from the toaster tray into the trash.