Macey
There was something almost therapeutic about chopping vegetables after a long day.
Maybe it was the rhythm. Maybe it was because vegetables didn’t care if I’d nailed an interview or whether my father still refused to acknowledge I existed. They just sat there on the cutting board, patiently waiting for me to decide whether they were becoming soup, pasta, or a stir-fry.
Tonight, they were becoming chicken parmesan.
Or at least that was the plan.
“Mace.”
I looked over my shoulder just in time to see Mikey leaning against the kitchen counter, stealing another piece of mozzarella.
“I saw that.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I pointed the knife at him.
“That’s the third piece.”
“It’s called quality control.”
“It’s called you’re eating dinner before dinner.”
He p
