tris


    1 stand back, wiping my hands on my already paint-stained overalls, and tilt my head to examine the finished piece.


    It''s vibrant. Alive. The central image depicts a framed dent in a kitchen wall, cracks spider-webbing outward. Yellow sunshine


    spills across the scene, dust motes floating in the air, and a baseball bat leans against the wall beneath the frame.


    When did I start painting happiness again? Usually my work leans toward the mncholic side of things, all muted blues and


    grays with asional bursts of controlled color and light.


    But this this is practically on fire. I''ve already used up one whole tube of yellow paint getting the sunbeams just right.


    I check the time on my phone and realize I''ve been painting for over four hours straight,pletely lost in the creative flow.


    If I were analyzing someone else''s work, I''d say the artist was experiencing a significant emotional upswing. Or perhaps a manic


    episode.


    Which, I suppose, I sort of am. For the first time in years, I''m... happy. Genuinely, unexpectedly, blissfully happy.


    "Mommy?" Miles'' voice from the doorway pulls me from my thoughts. He''s standing there with a coloring book dangling from


    one hand. "The kitchen smells funny."


    "Funny how?" I ask, setting down my brush.


    "Like that time you fell asleep during movie night and the popcorn got all ck." My eyes widen. "The roast!"


    1 rush past Miles into the kitchen, where a thin haze of smoke hangs in the air. The oven is still on, and when I yank open the


    door, a plume of thicker smoke billows out. Coughing, I grab an oven mitt and pull out what was supposed to be tonight''s dinner.


    "Shit," I mutter, dropping the ckened roast onto the stovetop. I was so


    absorbed in my painting that Ipletely forgot about


    dinner. And not just any dinner-the special family dinner with Arthur''s parents that I suggested.


    The dinner that''s supposed to happen in less than two hours.


    "Is that what we''re eating?" Miles asks, peering around me.


    "Definitely not," I say, turning on the vent and opening a window. "Thank you for telling me about the smell, buddy. You did


    really good thing. Now go pick up your toys before Grandma and Grandpa arrive, okay?"


    Miles scampers off, and I stare at the burnt roast, trying not to panic. The apartment still reeks of smoke, 1 dinner, and


    Arthur''s parents are due to arrive soon


    I grab my phone and start scrolling through food delivery apps. There''s no time to start another roast, and I don''t have the


    ingredients anyway. Take-out is our only option, but it can''t be just any take-out. Not for Leonard and Wendy.


    +20 Bonus


    After a few minutes of frantic searching, I find a higher-end local restaurant that delivers. Their menu looks promising. It''s


    pricier than I''d usually spend on delivery, but this is an emergency.


    I select a grilled salmon with roasted vegetables, an herb-crusted prime rib, roasted potatoes, a seasonal sd, and some fancy bread. For Miles, I add a gourmet macaroni and cheese that I know he''ll actually eat. I add some desserts for good measure, a


    decadent chocteva cake and some fruit tarts.


    As I ce the order, I wince at the total. There goes a chunk of my residency stipend. But it''ll be worth it if it means saving this dinner, which feels strangely important. Not just for Arthur and me, but for Miles, too. He deserves to have a rtionship with his grandparents, and I want to make a good second impression after the g


    and With dinner handled, I turn my attention to the apartment. I race around opening all the windows, spraying air freshener, setting out candles tobat the smell of burnt food. Then I shower quickly, change into a simple but nice dress, and help Miles into the outfit we picked out together-khaki pants and a button-up shirt that makes him look adorably grown-up.


    "Do I have to wear this?" he asks, pulling at his cor.


    "Just


    for tonight," I promise, smoothing down his wild hair. Goddess, sometimes he really does look like Arthur when that one stray curl falls across his forehead. Although, for the first time in the five years of his existence, I don''t feelpelled to tame it


    out of sight


    The food arrives just as I''m setting the table with my nicest dishes. I quickly transfer everything from the takeout containers to serving dishes, arranging it all to look perfect. A few minutester, the doorbell rings.