Patricia stood at my counter, constructing what she called a “clean” breakfast. Gluten-free pancakes. Dairy-free yogurt. A lineup of supplements that looked like a pharmacy display.
“Oh, Eleanor,” she said without looking up. “We’ll need you to run to the store. Kevin’s girlfriend is lactose intolerant, and Rachel’s youngest is allergic to literally everything. I made a list.”
She handed me three pages of demands written in tidy, aggressive handwriting, items highlighted in different colors: organic coconut milk, expensive kind; gluten-free bread that doesn’t taste like cardboard, good luck; electrolyte water only, not the cheap brand.
I took the list like I was accepting a memo in a board meeting.
“Of course,” I said, sweet as syrup.
Melissa glanced up, satisfied. Brandon didn’t even look away from his phone.
They thought they’d trained me.
I grabbed my purse and drove into town.
I did buy their groceries. I’m not petty about food.