Winnie busied herself in the kitchen. It felt good to be busy. Busy was safe. Busy wasn’t thinking.

She had to sigh as she glanced into the living room at Jonathan, hunched over mysterious tablets and obscure writings like other children attended to Legos or PlayDoh. He was such a child, only a boy, but then he was so much more in the blink of an eye.

Preferring to tell herself he was just bright and end it at that, she set about cutting the carrots, a simple task. A laugh escaped her lungs as she thought about simple tasks. Everything used to be simple: grades at the all girl Catholic school, toying with the boys in college, and even pregnacy.

Life should be simple, she thought, but Jonathan was not simple, hadn’t been since day one. But for now the carrots demanded her attention. She counted the cuts, one to thirty-seven and then on from there. These were easier things to think about.

Eventually she made herself look up, to consider her son, her offspring, deeply pondering a lunchbox.