For the next several nights, Frank returned home early enough to spend plenty of time with his family. Sam's Pachycephalosaurus stood a solitary vigil over the other toys in his room as its owner spent every waking moment clinging to his real dad. Harriet spent her evenings joining them in their games or reading side by side with Frank, sneaking smooches between chapters before they went off to their bedroom to do things that would not be appropriate for Sam to see.

Harriet's nights were dreamless even after she mailed her dad the Christmas present Sam had picked out for him. Frank's heartbeat lulled her to sleep as he snored beside her or, when sleep eluded him, stroked her hair. There was no coughing, no wheezing, no waking up weeping. There was only their love for each other, with even the siren call of the oven unable to get her attention.

She should have known it was too good to last.

Harriet was stirring a pot of mac and cheese when he called. Not the boxed kind with its dubiously named cheese sauce, but the melt-in-your-mouth bliss of a blend of five cheeses just like her mom used to make when she was little. "I might be a bit late," Frank said.

"Traffic?" She strained her ears to listen for the telltale honking of bumper-to-bumper cars on the other end of the call, but she couldn't hear a single hint of road rage.

"Some stuff just came up is all. I'll be home as soon as I can. Promise."

"Okay, but remember what we talked about. Love you."

"Love you too," he said softly, blowing her a kiss before hanging up.

"Is Dad gonna be home soon?" Sam asked. He was busy making Thanksgiving cards for his class, each one bearing a hand turkey that looked less and less like an actual bird as he worked his way from his friends' cards to the ones for the kids he barely even knew the names of.

"I hope so, honey." She breathed a deep sigh into the steam wafting off the mac and cheese. He had to reach a good stopping point, that's all it was. At least, that's what she kept telling herself as she gripped the spoon so hard she was afraid she'd get a splinter. "I'll save him a plate."

They ate in silence, glancing at the door every other mouthful as if staring at it would magically teleport Frank home. His plate of mac and cheese cooled into a sad heap of yellow mush as they waited.

Sam scraped up the last of his noodles, fork screeching across the plate. "Can I have some more?"

"You forgot the magic word," Harriet mumbled as she glanced at the door yet again. The leafy garland hanging from it looked as dead as her hope that Frank would come home at a reasonable hour. "And I need to make sure your dad has something to eat when he gets home."

"Can I please have some more?" His stomach gurgled its own request. "It's my favorite!"

He had her there. Besides, he actually appreciated her cooking enough to come to the table on time. "Alright, you can have one more scoop if you help me wash the dishes afterward."

He paused to consider the heap of pots in the sink. "A big scoop."

"You drive a hard bargain. How about you throw in a hug for the chef and we call it a deal?"

Sam practically knocked over her chair in his rush to seal the deal while the gooey goodness was still hot. "I'll take that as a yes," Harriet said with a laugh.

Harriet scooped a generous helping of noodles onto Sam's plate. While he devoured his mac and cheese, she deposited the leftovers into a Tupperware container and chucked them in the fridge. If Frank didn't hurry his butt home, she might just give Sam thirds.

Once he licked the last of the cheese sauce from his plate, Sam dutifully carried it to the sink. "How about you handle the washing, and I'll dry 'em off?" Harriet said.

They settled into a steady rhythm with a pile of clean plates quickly growing beside Harriet. Soapsuds filled the sink as Sam scrubbed at a particularly stubborn bit of dried-on cheese. "Get off," he muttered through gritted teeth as he scraped at it with the abrasive side of a sponge.

"Easy there, buddy. We can just let it soak for a bit."

"I've got it."

If by it he meant more dish soap than Harriet usually used in a week, he was absolutely right. All it took was one hard squeeze, and the blue liquid shot out of the bottle. Clouds of bubbles burst from the water in a soapy storm.

Sam pried the last of the dried-on cheese off the pot with a definitive stroke of the sponge. "See? Told you I'd get it."

"You know what else you got?"

"What?"

Harriet scooped up a handful of bubbles and smeared it across his face. "A great big beard!"

Sam retaliated by tossing a chunk of the whiteness onto her head. "And you've got an Afro like Dad!"

"Oh, it is on!"

Foam flew across the kitchen as they flung it at each other, leaving the plates forgotten. Harriet's clothes clung to her in a tight, wet hug as dishwater seeped to her skin. Who cared if things got messy? They had all the fun of a waterpark right in the sink, complete with splashing and dubious substances floating around in the water.

By the time they were finished, Harriet and Sam stood soaking wet next to a pile of perfectly clean dishes. "Okay, buddy," Harriet said as she swept the suds out of her hair, "time to shave off that bubbly beard."

As the last of the foam went down the drain, Sam's giggling faded until they were left with nothing but silence once again.

Frank still hadn't come home.

"I'm sure he'll be back soon," Harriet said.

Sam shrugged, with more than dishwater wetting his cheeks as he stared at the door. "I wish he was here now."

"Me too."

By the time Harriet finished giving Sam a bath, drying both of them off, and putting him to bed, the door still hadn't opened. She checked her phone, but the only message was a brief text from Patricia showing her the latest attempt at a sweet potato casserole. The marshmallows blanketed the side dish in an uneven, blackened crust, and a layer of hardened sugar coated the sweet potatoes peeking out from within. Well, I tried read the text below the disaster.

Harriet thumbed out a quick response. It happens. Last year, my biscuits turned out so hard we could have played hockey with them.

At least it's not on fire this time, Patricia texted back. I swear I had better luck getting Logan not to hide toy caterpillars in other kids' desks, and we all know how well that went.

At least your kid doesn't hide his food. Mrs. Dawson had me come clean out Sam's desk because he kept leaving his snacks in there. I swear there must have been at least 50 new species of bacteria on those blueberries by the time I cleaned them out...

They must have reeked! Gray dots flickered on the screen as Patricia typed out her next message. You okay?

Harriet collapsed into her armchair with a sigh. Frank's late.

Same shit, different day. I swear if that man leaves you waiting one more time, I'm going to drag him out of the office myself.

Harriet snorted at the image of the pint-sized woman hauling her much more solidly built husband out of the office like a workaholic sack of potatoes. He still hasn't even figured out what he wants to bring to Dad's for Thanksgiving.

Her phone went silent for a minute that became two, then five. Finally, Patricia responded I'd love to figure out how we've going to make him quit being such a turkey, but I've gotta go check on Logan. Sounds like he's trying to give Benny a haircut.

Harriet texted her a quick goodnight message with a reminder to send pics if the dog ended up looking like a punk rocker again before putting her phone away. The November night was quiet, without even the usual wind tapping branches against the windows for company.

8 o'clock was far too early for her to head to bed herself, and her usual romance novels would do little to ease her mind. They were full of reminders of what she didn't have: freedom to do what she wanted when she wanted to, a partner who was always there to listen to her and shower her with love, happiness.

She wandered over to the pantry. Pushing past bags of goldfish crackers and boxes of fruit snacks, Harriet took inventory of her supplies. She had plenty of flour, sugar, and other basic baking essentials, but, as usual, she didn't have anything too exciting. No matter how at home she felt in the kitchen now, she wasn't Carol.

No, she wasn't Carol. She was no baked good goddess, no catering queen. What on earth was she doing standing in the pantry when she could be snuggled under the covers in her PJs with a book and a much-needed glass of wine in hand?

She was enjoying herself, that's what. Harriet pulled out all the ingredients she'd need to make some good old-fashioned biscuits. Thanksgiving was just around the corner, and, as Patricia's incinerated sweet potato casserole had reminded her, she really did need to make a couple practice batches to avoid a repeat of last Thanksgiving.

Her mom had damn near lost a tooth biting into the insanely hard biscuits. Sam had turned his into a makeshift hockey puck, sliding it back and forth across the table with his grandpa. He'd been healthier, then. Not without his issues (he'd still coughed into his apple cider and needed to wheel out his oxygen tank after he'd accidentally sprayed half the family and laughed until he could barely breath), but without the pale presence of death stalking his every rattling breath.

This Thanksgiving would be better, she told herself, and so would the next and the one after that. She'd keep practicing until her contributions to the family dinner made it the Thanksgiving of a lifetime every single year.

Besides, she needed this. Needed to stop caring whether or not it was normal to bake at night, needed to finally do something that wasn't for Frank or Sam or even her dad. This would be for her and her alone.

As Harriet mixed together the biscuit dough, she let out of her frustration about everything. Frank taking his sweet time getting home, Thanksgiving and Christmas coming up as quickly and chaotically as a pair of toddlers rushing into a toy store, that I-told-you-so look she knew her mom would wear if she ever told her about Frank going back to his old ways: all this and more she worked into the dough until her worries faded away. There was nothing left but her, the dough, and the gentle hum of the oven.

At least, there wasn't until Frank's car rumbled up the driveway.

He trudged into the kitchen just as she was putting the biscuits into the oven. "Uh, hi." He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "I didn't expect to see you waitin' for me."

"I didn't expect to see you at all," she said, eyes glued to the oven. "Your dinner's in the fridge."

He looked from her to the fridge and back again. "Somethin' tells me I'm lucky it's not poisoned." He chuckled half-heartedly before the grin fell off his face. "I'm sorry, babe. You know how the holiday season is for everyone, and things are getting extra crazy now that we actually have Hershey's as a long-term client. Imagine that, my footage in their ad. If that doesn't land me a big, fat Christmas bonus, nothing will."

Had she not been baking, Harriet would have told him he was fixing to have a big, fat foot up his butt for going back on his word. But she had been, so instead she said, "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay. That happened."

He pulled the mac and cheese she'd set aside for him out of the fridge before tiptoeing around her on his way to the microwave. "Babe, go ahead and tell me how disappointed you are in me. I deserve it."

How could she be disappointed when she'd been a fool to expect anything else? "Looks like the biscuits are ready."

They emerged from the oven with a whoosh of hot air. Harriet shut her eyes and enjoyed the fleeting embrace it brought her.

"Lookin' good," Frank said. He stared into his bowl of mac and cheese, leftover pasta smiles as flimsy as the one he had forced onto his face. "Mind if I try one?"

"They've gotta cool first, but knock yourself out."

And so he did, groaning as his teeth sank into the dense chunk of bread. "It's good," he said before hastily rummaging through the fridge and guzzling the last of their milk straight from the jug. "It's so good I don't think I deserve to be eating it."

Harriet rolled her eyes before storing the rest of the biscuits and heading to bed for the night. Bread like that was only suited to feeding ducks or bonking overly aggressive geese on the head. Maybe she'd take Sam to feed the ducks again, assuming she wasn't too busy baking.