Page 4 of One Night Flame

Electric bill: unpaid.

Clean laundry: mythical.

My sanity: holding on with duct tape and a prayer.

It was like this most mornings—some blend of low-grade chaos and blind momentum. One year into living in Huckleberry Creek, and I still hadn’t found that magical groove where single motherhood, full-time teaching, and pretending to be a functioning adult all synced up. Probably because that groove didn’t exist. Just a myth we told ourselves between coffee refills.

“Found it!” Liam shouted from under the couch, brandishing his missing shoe like a trophy.

“Fantastic.” I grabbed his sock from the back of the chair and tossed it to him. “Five minutes to brush your teeth, and then we pack up. I mean it this time.”

He nodded and scampered off.

I let out a breath and finally took a real sip of coffee—still hot, which felt like a miracle—and leaned a hip against the counter.

We weren’t late yet. Also miraculous. But we were close enough that I didn’t dare celebrate.

Liam wandered back into the kitchen, cereal spoon in one hand, his shirt half-buttoned and already carrying a suspicious streak of jelly across the front from I had no idea where. His hair looked like it had lost a battle with both his pillow and static electricity. He was, as usual, a perfect mess.

“I couldn’t find the toothpaste,” he announced, chewing like he had zero intention of pausing to swallow.

“It’s in the same place it’s been since we moved in,” I said,wiping the counter with one hand and grabbing a napkin with the other.

He shrugged and grinned. “I used the travel one from the drawer.”

“From the drawer with the Band-Aids?”

He nodded proudly.

I crouched down and tugged him close so I could swipe the corner of his mouth. Strawberry jam. Of course it was. I’d need to check his nightstand drawer later to see if he’d stuck the jar in there for snacking. “Remind me to buy stock in napkins.”

“You say that a lot.”

“Because you’re sticky a lot.”

He giggled and leaned against me while I tied his sneaker. Lopsided, the laces slightly frayed. Parenting, in one knot. I kissed the top of his head before he could squirm away.

“Hey, Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“Do teachers get recess too?”

Something about the way he asked the question—curious, sweet, completely unaware of how it landed—stopped me in my tracks.

I smiled, soft and tired. “Not really. But sometimes we sneak a minute or two when no one’s looking.”

He seemed to consider this, like it was a radical injustice that needed to be fixed. “Then I hope you get to sneak some today.”

My throat tightened. “Thanks, bud.” I nudged him toward the bathroom. “Now go find the real toothpaste before your breath scares your classmates.”

He laughed and ran off.

I watched him go, heart full and aching in the same breath.

The house quieted for a beat, just long enough for the hum of the fridge to rise and the silence to feel a little too loud. Ileaned against the counter and let myself exhale, the kind of breath you didn’t take when someone was watching. Across from me, the morning light cut through the kitchen window, landing right on the side of the fridge I tried not to look at too closely.

But of course, I did.

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