Chapter 2 - The Fifth Departure
The kitchen of the Mercer house was designed for a family that never existed. It featured gleaming granite countertops, professional-grade stainless steel appliances, and an expansive center island where Rachel used to roll out dough while the boys sat on tall stools, covered in flour from their ears to their toes.
Now, it was a museum of managed neglect.
A box of half-eaten crackers sat beside a stack of unpaid utility bills. Two mismatched plastic cups were half-filled with chocolate milk that had formed a gray skin across the top. On the floor near the pantry, a blue plastic dinosaur lay headless, its tail missing.
Adrian walked through the back door at six o’clock that evening, his overcoat damp from the drizzle that had started around four.
The house was too quiet. That was the first sign. Usually, even on the worst days, there was the low-frequency hum of a cartoon playing on the den television or the sound of blocks being dumped across the hardwood. Tonight, the only sound was the refrigerator compressor cycling on and off.
"Eli? Noah? Ben?"
He dropped his leather briefcase on the entryway bench. It hit the wood with a heavy, leaden thud.
From the hallway came the sound of dragging feet. Benjamin appeared first, his dark curls wild and uncombed, clutching the blue pillow so tightly to his chest that his knuckles were bloodless. Noah was right behind him, his lower lip tucked firmly between his teeth, his yellow shirt stained with what looked like grape jelly. Eli brought up the rear, his small nose wrinkled in that familiar expression of permanent grievance.
"Where is Kendra?" Adrian asked, kneeling down so he was eye-level with the boys.
"She went outside," Ben whispered, his voice small and hollow.
"Outside? In the rain?"
"She was crying," Noah added, his lip trembling. "She said we were little monsters and that she couldn't stand the way the house smelled like medicine."
Adrian stood up slowly, the blood roaring in his ears.
The medicine. That was Rachel’s morphine pumps and saline drips. The medical supply company had picked up the heavy machinery six months ago, but the antiseptic smell—that clinical, chemical ghost of her final weeks—seemed baked into the cedar paneling of the master suite. Kendra had been the fifth girl in four months. Twenty-two years old, recruited through an online agency that promised certified childcare specialists, she had lasted exactly nine days before breaking under the weight of three grieving toddlers and a house that refused to let go of the past.
Adrian walked to the front window and looked out into the driveway. Kendra’s compact car was already gone, its taillights disappearing down the dark, winding stretch of Ridge Road toward the highway.
On the kitchen counter, next to the half-empty cereal box, lay an envelope with his name written in hurried, block letters: Mr. Mercer. I can't do this. They don't listen, and you're never here. Find someone else.
Adrian crumpled the paper in his fist and threw it into the trash can.
The phone on the wall began to ring. Its sharp, electronic trill cut through the heavy air of the kitchen like a saw blade.
He picked it up on the second ring.
"Adrian," Monica’s voice came through the receiver, sharp and metallic. "I’m looking at the security footage from your front porch. Did Kendra just leave with her bags?"
"She left," Adrian said, rubbing the bridge of his nose where a dull, throbbing migraine was beginning to take root.
"That's five, Adrian. Five girls in four months. The entire town is talking. People at the country club are asking if you're even capable of maintaining a stable household. The boys need a woman’s hand—a permanent one. Not another twenty-year-old college dropout who treats your home like a transit station."
"I'm working on it, Monica."
"No, you're not. You're hiding behind your blueprints while your sons raise themselves. I told you months ago—bring them to my place for six months while you get your head straight. We have the space. We have the structure."
"They belong in their own home," Adrian said, his voice dropping an octave into the cold register he used with uncooperative contractors.
"Their home is a graveyard, Adrian! Look at them! They're living among ghosts, and you're too stubborn to admit that you're drowning!"
The line went dead with a harsh click.
Adrian lowered the phone slowly to its cradle. He looked across the kitchen island at his three sons, who were now sitting in a row on the floor, staring up at him with identical expressions of terrified anticipation. They didn't cry. That was the most heartbreaking part. They had learned that tears didn't bring their mother back, and they were beginning to suspect that tears might make their father go away, too.
He knelt down again, reaching out to touch Eli’s dark hair.
"Hey," he said softly. "Who wants pancakes for dinner? Real ones. From scratch."
Ben looked down at his blue pillow. "Will they taste like the ones Mom made?"
Adrian stopped breathing for three seconds.
"No, buddy," he said, his voice cracking slightly before he caught himself. "They'll taste like mine. Which means they'll probably be a little burnt."
May you like
Eli wrinkled his nose. "I like burnt ones if they have syrup."
"Syrup we have," Adrian muttered, standing up and heading for the pantry. "Syrup we have plenty of."
