A Place at Breakfast

At seven the next morning, Lily moved a napkin from one chair to another and informed Mrs. Chen that I had a place.

"He knows," Mrs. Chen said. "He has been standing there for five minutes."

I sat down.

My breakfast usually arrived on a tray beside a screen. This one included a plastic stegosaurus, three crayons, and a discussion about why rabbits could not attend preschool.

"Because they bite," Lily explained.

"Bunny doesn't bite," I said.

"That's why he can go."

Maria hid a smile behind her coffee.

"We aren't taking Bunny to preschool again. Last time you made the teacher take his attendance."

Lily looked at me for support. I applied myself to my pancakes.

Maria's foot brushed mine beneath the table when she reached for the syrup. She apologized, moved her chair slightly, and went back to cutting Lily's food.

I noticed the small silver hoop in her ear. I had never noticed it before.

That bothered me more than it should have.

When I stood to leave, Lily caught my sleeve.

"Are you eating here tomorrow?"

I looked at Maria. She kept her attention on the plate in front of her.

"If I'm invited."

"You are," Lily said. "But you have to say hello first."

I arrived at the office twenty minutes late.

Victor Sloan was waiting outside my door with a folder tucked beneath his arm. He had been my father's executive assistant before becoming my chief operating officer, and he disliked changes he hadn't initiated.

"Everything all right at home?"

"Yes."

He glanced at the yellow star on my cuff.

Lily had put it there for finishing breakfast.

"Shall I move your morning calls?"

"Leave them. Move Thursday's dinner."

"The investor reception?"

"Send my apologies."

Victor hesitated, then nodded.

I left the star on until it fell off somewhere near noon.

Over the next two weeks, breakfast became an appointment my assistant learned not to move.

Lily told stories that wandered between dinosaurs and the elevator. Maria corrected only the parts that might cause trouble outside the apartment. I learned that she liked strong coffee, hated pears, and studied accounting online after her daughter went to bed.

I also learned that offering to solve everything was an excellent way to make her stop talking.

"I can pay the tuition," I said one evening when she mentioned an upcoming exam.

She closed her textbook around a pencil.

"I'm telling you why I look tired. I'm not sending you an invoice."

"I didn't mean it that way."

"I know."

That was worse than an argument.

I leaned against the kitchen island. "What would actually help?"

She considered me.

"Three uninterrupted hours on Tuesday. My seminar is live, and Lily has decided my professor needs regular updates about her rabbit."

"Mrs. Chen can stay."

"She already stays late twice a week. I don't want to ask her again."

"Then I'll do it."

Maria blinked.

"You have meetings."

"I can move them."

"You don't know her bedtime."

"You can write it down."

She was quiet for long enough that I thought she might refuse.

"She gets one story," she said finally. "She will tell you otherwise."

On Tuesday, I came home at six with a stuffed rabbit the size of a small armchair.

Lily looked up from the rug.

"Is he Bunny's dad?"

"He could be."

She touched its immaculate fur, then reached for her old rabbit.

"Bunny doesn't know him."

Maria turned away. Her shoulders moved once.

"You're laughing," I said.

"I'm trying very hard not to."

The new rabbit spent the evening in a corner, wearing my coat.

I followed Maria's written instructions with more attention than I had given several acquisition agreements. Dinner was simple. Bath time was handled before her class. The book was called Good Night, Little Bear.

The difficulty began when Lily requested pancakes for Bunny.

"He didn't eat dinner," she said.

"He watched you eat dinner."

"Watching isn't eating."

I couldn't argue with the principle.

By seven-fifteen, flour covered the counter. Lily stood on a kitchen step stool beside me, supervised closely enough that she complained about it.

My first pancake resembled a country neither of us could identify.

"That's a giraffe," I told her.

"Where's his head?"

"It folded."

She ate the head and most of the body. Bunny appeared satisfied with an empty plate.

Getting her into bed required two trips to the bathroom, a search for a nonexistent blue sock, and a negotiation over whether bears slept standing up.

At eight-forty, she was asleep.

I stayed beside her bed for another five minutes, listening to her breathe.

Maria found me washing the mixing bowl after class.

She stood in the kitchen doorway and stared.

"What happened?"

"The instructions didn't cover rabbits with dietary requirements."

Her laugh came out tired and unguarded.

She walked over, picked flour off my shoulder, and inspected my sleeve.

"Did you use the whisk on purpose?"

"That sounds like a technical question."

"Give me that."

She reached for the bowl. I held on.

"You finished three hours of class. Sit down."

Her hand rested against mine for a moment before she let go.

I made coffee. She took hers to the stool beside the island and loosened her hair. A dark wave fell over one shoulder.

"How was it?" I asked.

"The class or the test of your survival skills?"

"Both."

She told me about a professor who refused to admit his microphone was broken, a difficult assignment, and the student who always spoke first without knowing the answer.

I told her about a director who had approved a presentation without noticing that half the numbers were in the wrong currency.

We stayed there until the coffee went cold.

At the elevator, she turned back.

"Thank you for tonight."

"I enjoyed it."

"You have batter in your hair."

"There were setbacks."

She smiled. "Good night, Daniel."

It was the first time my name had sounded like an invitation.

The following Saturday, Mrs. Chen asked whether I wanted the contents of my mother's old writing desk sent to storage.

My father had died eight months earlier. His executor had shipped boxes to me, and I had put most of them in an unused room without opening them.

"Why?" I asked.

"The movers missed the little drawer underneath. It stuck. I asked maintenance to open it."

She held out an envelope.

Daniel.

The handwriting slanted gently to the right. I knew it before I could remember why.

My mother's hand.

I took the envelope, suddenly unable to feel the flour-stiff cuff of my shirt against my wrist.

Mrs. Chen asked whether I wanted breakfast.

For once, I couldn't answer her.