Burnt Pancakes and Other Breakthroughs

You know what? I quit.

I am angry—no, seething. My hands grip the Rogue’s steering wheel with enough force to leave imprints. My left thumb pulses red. I just got off the phone with my husband, and I swear if I hear one more “Think of it this way—” from him, I might drive this thing straight into a cornfield and disappear.

“She forgot to ask work about leaving early,” he’d said.

Of course she did. She never remembers.

The “she” in question is my stepdaughters’ mother—Jasmine. A full-grown adult who works part-time at the feed store and otherwise spends her days playing pretend farmer on a property she and her husband bought for more money than they could afford. “Rescuing” animals that they can barely feed, posting feel-good, poorly-lit photos of ducklings on Instagram with captions like “#futurehomesteader,” and taking deposits for litters of puppies that have never once materialized.

Nothing sells. Nothing moves. And yet she’s always “so busy” and never has money.

Meanwhile, I work full-time. I manage a house, track our finances, and co-plan our time with the girls when they’re with us. My husband works full-time as well but is significantly more salaried than I, manages their appointments, and the medication they each refuse to swallow the same way twice. But sure, I can be the one to drop everything. Again.

“You know what?” I say aloud in the cabin of my SUV. “I quit.”

I pause at a red light and really let it settle. The phrase. The finality of it.

“I quit.”

But I don’t. Of course I don’t.

Because it’s Tuesday at 2:50, and the girls get out at 3:05. And I’m already halfway there.

“Hey ladies!” I call, trying to fake a cheerfulness I don’t feel. My stomach is still knotted with resentment, but I mask it with a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes.

“Hey!” Joy Anna, the ten-year-old, climbs into the back with the kind of genuine excitement only someone who still collects stickers can muster. “It smells like fries in here. Did you get fries?”

“Nope, just my leftovers from lunch.”

“Bummer.” She kicks her shoes off, unzips her backpack, and tosses out her lunch box like she owns the space.

Thirteen-year-old Lainie slides into the passenger seat, earbuds still in. She pulls one out and glances sideways at me. “Let me guess. She ‘forgot’ again?”

I don’t answer right away. Having used a pull-through and parked in the school lot, I let the other minivans pass in front of us like ants on a mission. “She had a work shift come up.”

Lainie scoffs. “Right. Because the farm won’t run itself.”

I look at her. “She’s trying.”

Lainie shrugs. “She tries a lot of things.”

We drive in silence for a minute. I glance at her again and catch her expression—flat, detached. She’s old enough to start seeing patterns. I remember what that age felt like, realizing the adults you depended on were just… improvising.

“Did you see the cutie patootie puppies?” Joy Anna, or JoJo as most of her mother’s family calls her, pipes up from the back. “She put up some new ones on the Facebook page.”

“No,” I say, too quickly. “No. I don’t think I’m…subscribed.”

Lainie turns to the window. “It’s fine. I didn’t want to do barn chores tonight anyway.”

Her voice trails off, and I don’t fill the space. Because what is there to say?

That night, after the girls are dropped off, fed, brushed, and tucked into the couch with Netflix and a bowl of popcorn, I finally sit beside my husband.

He’s got that look on his face—the one where he thinks he’s doing the right thing by staying quiet. It’s infuriating.

“She treats my time like it’s a vending machine,” I say.

He sighs. “I told her it wasn’t fair.” I give him the side-eye. “I did,” he insists.

“And she didn’t care.”

“She said she didn’t expect you to say yes.”

“She always expects me to say yes. Because I always do. Because if I don’t, you will. And if you don’t, your brother or his wife will. Someone will jump in and save her from the consequences of her own choices.”

He doesn’t argue.

I lean forward. “When was the last time she paid you back for that kennel you bought for the puppies?”

He hesitates.

“Exactly.”

“I’m not defending her,” he says softly.

“But you’re not stopping it, either.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “What do you want me to do? We can’t afford to give her any more child support than what I give her now.”

“Stop making me the solution to someone else’s chaos,” I say. “I want to be a partner in this house. Not the relief pitcher for your baby mama’s failed fantasy of being the barefoot homestead queen.”

He flinches. “That’s harsh.”

“But true.”

We sit in silence. It stretches. There’s something growing between us, and it’s not just frustration. It’s the slow realization that this version of parenting—a patchwork of guilt and resentment and someone else’s romanticized struggle—is going to break us if we let it.

The next morning, I wake up early and text Jasmine.

Going forward, I really need at least 24 hours’ notice for any schedule changes. I’m happy to help when I can, but I can’t keep absorbing last-minute shifts or adjustments. Please plan accordingly.

It takes her four hours to respond.

K. Guess I’ll figure it out.

That’s it. Not “thank you.” Not “sorry.” Just a middle finger in the form of a lowercase text.

But weirdly, I feel relief.

A few days later, Lainie lingers after dinner. Joy Anna’s gone to FaceTime her friend to show off her latest, and unfinished, crochet project. Lainie hovers in the kitchen, dragging her sleeve across the counter, erasing a smear of sauce, and I wince at the thought of fighting another clothing stain.

“She said something weird yesterday,” she finally says.

“Your mom?”

She nods. “She said you’re trying to ‘phase her out.’ Like, you think you’re replacing her.”

My throat tightens. “Is that what you think?”

She shrugs, but her eyes are too still. “Sometimes I don’t know what to think.”

I lean against the counter beside her. “Lainie, I’m not trying to replace anyone. She is your mom, no one else. I’m just trying to show up where I’m needed.”

“But you’re always around.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m trying to win.”

She looks at me. “But if this was a competition… you’d be ahead.”

It’s not a compliment. It’s a wound.

I want to say something wise, something to untangle that tight little knot of loyalty and shame she’s carrying around. But I just put my hand on her shoulder. She leans into it, for a second, before pulling away.

Another week passes.

Then comes another text.

Can you pick them up today? I have a vet appointment that ran over and I can't make it in time.

It’s 1:32 p.m. An hour before I’d have to leave to pick up the girls.

I stare at the screen. Then I look at my planner, where in purple ink I’ve blocked off time for a haircut from my friend, Traci, in 30 minutes. I could reschedule, despite having gone five months without one, but instead I type:

I can’t today. Already have an appointment I can’t miss. Hope it works out.

I wait.

No response.

And still—no fire. No backlash. Even more surprisingly, no guilt-bomb.

That night, my husband doesn’t even ask. Just walks into the living room where I’m reading and says, “Thank you. For saying no.”

It catches me off guard, and I lay the thickest layer of skepticism at his feet. “Really?”

He nods. “You needed to. I needed to see what happens when we let her figure it out.”

“And?”

He shrugged. “She figured it out.”

He sits beside me. Doesn’t reach for me. Doesn’t try to kiss away the awkwardness of the last few weeks. Just sits there. Quietly.

And somehow, that’s enough.

Saturday comes.

The girls tumble through the door like wind, noisy and full of half-finished thoughts that fall as fast to the floor as their belongings.

I give Lainie space to roll her eyes and Joy Anna room to chatter. I don’t overcorrect or overextend. I am trying not to make up for anyone else.

We finally make the pancakes they’ve been begging all week for in our phone conversations. The first batch partly burns due to my lack of skill in flipping them over in time. No one above the age of 13 makes this into a metaphor. Instead, we all laugh about it. Joy Anna insists on making hers shaped like animals—succeeds only in making them look like abstract art.

While pouring syrup onto her pile of doughy Picasso pieces, Lainie shows me a meme she found about “plant moms” vs. “animal moms” and whispers, “Mom posted five pictures of a chicken in a tutu this morning.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Chickens wear tutus now?”

She gives a slight grin, and accepts my hand as it briefly brushes the hair out of her blue eyes. “Apparently.”

We don’t say more. We don’t have to.

Later, Lainie leans her head against my shoulder on the couch while we all watch an episode of Psych, an old USA Network show that isn’t as old as the girls make it out to be—never mind what my age is…or isn’t.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to.

My husband catches my eye from across the room and gives me the smallest smile—the one I’ll look forward to kissing later, when the house is quiet. The kind that says: We’re still here. And we are.

This isn’t the life I imagined.

But maybe it’s the one I was meant to grow into—messy, loud, beautiful, imperfect. Shared.

I didn’t quit.

But I did draw the line.

And in this family—stitched together with blood and choice and a lot of uneasy grace—that’s enough.

That’s enough.

And still worth showing up for.