Chapter 4

I didn’t sign up for this.

That was the single, consistent thought rattling through my head as I shuffled—no, wobbled—into what I assumed was the kitchen. Baby on my hip. Hair like a haystack. Wearing a shirt that definitely used to be a towel in a previous life.

I was Leon Darrow. Former assassin. Ghost of the underworld. I could skin a man with piano wire and vanish into a crowd in Milan without a trace.

But now?

Now, I was walking around in fuzzy bunny slippers, torn extra large t-shirt and dodging tiny plastic landmines shaped like ponies and kitchen utensils.

“Okay,” I muttered to myself. “Pancakes. How hard can it be? Flour. Eggs. Fire. Boom.”

The baby gurgled, as if mocking me.

The middle child—still unnamed—was already climbing on the kitchen counter like a deranged squirrel.

“Get down from there!” I barked, then blinked, surprised at how naturally the words came out. “You’ll break your neck!”

“No, I won’t,” she said cheerfully, reaching for something in the top cabinet. “I do this all the time!”

Of course she does. Of course this household runs on toddler anarchy.

Maya, the eldest, was standing beside me like a small, stern sous-chef. “You need to use the yellow mixing bowl. Not the blue one. The blue one is cursed.”

“…Cursed?”

She nodded, completely serious. “Last time we used it, the pancakes tasted like wet socks and the cat threw up on the curtains.”

There was no cat in sight.

I didn’t ask further.

I found what looked like flour and what definitely smelled like eggs, and began the sacred ritual of pancake-making—without a recipe. Because naturally, this family didn’t believe in such things.

Maya handed me the spatula like it was a holy relic. “Don’t flip too early,” she warned. “Last time you flipped too soon and then you cried in the bathroom.”

I blinked. “I did what?”

“You were very emotional, mom.”

I didn’t know whether to be horrified or impressed.

The baby was now gnawing on my shoulder like a teething piranha. The middle child was covered in something sticky and was shouting, “I’M THE MAPLE QUEEN!” while pouring syrup directly into her mouth.

Oh God.

There was batter on the ceiling.

A plastic spoon in my too greasy hair.

Smoke began to rise from the skillet.

Panic surged.

The smoke alarm let out a bloodcurdling scream.

What the fuck is happening?

Everyone screamed back—including me.

The baby giggled like a tiny demon. Maya grabbed a dish towel and started flapping it under the alarm like a pro firefighter. The middle one was trying to save the pancake with a Barbie blue doll. I tried to remove the pan from the fire and dropped it. It landed with a sizzling splat and released what could only be described as a smell of regret and tragedy.

I turned slowly to the girls.

“Okay,” I said, completely deadpan. “New plan. We eat cereal.”

Maya sighed with the world-weariness of a seasoned war general. “You always say that when the kitchen burns.”

I stared at her. “How many times have I tried to cook?”

“Too many,” she replied flatly.

The middle child, her face sticky and sparkling with syrup, marched proudly to the table and held up her burnt pancake like it was a trophy. “I like it! It’s crispy. Like dragon skin!”

The baby chose that moment to fart with such force that it echoed against the kitchen tiles. Then she clapped.

Of course she did.

I stood there in the chaos, hands on my hips—one of which was now mysteriously smeared with jelly—and let out a long breath.

This was it.

This was my life now.

Cereal in cracked bowls. Maple queens. Cursed mixing bowls. Smoke alarms and weirdly emotional pancakes.

And despite the complete domestic nightmare, the sticky floors, and the smell of burnt batter… I didn’t hate it.

In fact, a strange warmth settled in my chest.

Maybe it was a hormone imbalance. Maybe this body was forcing me to care. But when the girls sat down at the table, giggling, chewing, pushing a cereal box back and forth like it was the last resource on earth, I didn’t feel the usual urge to vanish through a window.

I felt… okay.

Still confused. Still horrified. But okay.

I poured cereal into the fourth bowl and sat down with them.

And I thought, was there any free time for myself? I need to get my bearings. I need to think. But could I even leave them for twenty seconds without burning the whole poor kitchen?

One of the girls—the middle one, maybe soon I’ll learn her name—looked up at me and grinned with cereal stuck to her cheeks.

“You’re a better mommy today,” she said, mouth full.

“Oh yeah?” I raised an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

“You didn’t throw the plate and the pan out the window this time.”

Touché.