Just a Little Bit

“It’s never just about the lasagne. It’s about the thousand other things it’s standing in for.”

As I entered the kitchen, the dim pre-dawn light barely touched the corners of the room, casting everything in muted greys and soft edges. I hadn’t even tied my dressing gown properly yet—just shuffled in, drawn by the sounds of movement and the faint aroma of something unmistakably… inappropriate for the hour.

And there he was.

Charles. Slouched in front of the open fridge like a raccoon in a church pantry, one hand brazenly hovering over last night’s lasagne, the Tupperware lid hanging loose in his other. The rich, cloying scent of garlic and tomato and cold cheese filled the air like an accusation. He didn’t even flinch when I appeared in the doorway—just turned slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching, that familiar, maddening glint of mischief in his eyes.

He knew. Of course he knew.

My jaw tensed before I could speak, my fingers curling around the edge of the countertop for ballast. The irritation prickled its way up my spine, tightening my shoulders. It wasn’t just the lasagne—it was the timing. The disrespect. The emotions of the past week condensed into this one ridiculous act of defiance at 5:43 in the morning.

He was supposed to be dressed for seminary. Reading his scriptures. At the very least, clothed. And instead, I was watching him carve out a wedge of Monday night’s dinner like a sleep-deprived bandit.

And something about it—something petty and absurd—made my throat close up with that familiar, combustible blend of exasperation and helplessness. This child, this boy-man, seemed hell-bent on testing every ounce of patience I had left. And lately, that well was running frighteningly dry.

“Charles!” I snapped, my voice cutting through the quiet hum of the refrigerator. The sharpness of it startled even me. I planted my hands on my hips, my dressing gown gaping slightly at the collar, the fabric bunching awkwardly around my elbows. I knew the stance—stern, familiar, maternal—but this morning it felt more like armour than authority.

He spun around with a jerk, the container clutched between his fingers, his face caught in that maddening blend of guilt and mischief. His mouth opened as if to defend himself, then faltered at the sight of my expression.

“I was just…” he started, half-heartedly, his voice trailing into the charged stillness between us.

He straightened, puffing himself up with exaggerated dignity, adopting the ridiculous posture of a news anchor or a courtroom lawyer—shoulders back, chin high—as if the absurdity of it might disarm me.

“It's all part of my healthy, balanced breakfast regimen,” he declared, gesturing with mock grandeur at the half-scooped lasagne, his tone as theatrical as it was irreverent.

I stared at him for a long second, eyes narrowed. My jaw ached from being clenched so tightly.

The audacity. The ridiculousness.

And yet, beneath the flash of irritation, something ached. Something deeper. He was trying—always trying—to make me laugh, to pull me into his world of jest and cheek. And once, I might have let him. Once, I might have chuckled, shaken my head, indulged the foolishness.

But this morning… this morning I had no laughter left to give.

I rolled my eyes, a tight, silent exhale escaping through my nose. My patience—stretched taut over days of silence, worry, and secrets—felt like it might snap with the smallest nudge.

But Charles, ever the jokester, seemed determined to test the very limits of my patience. His grin widened, unabashed, a spark of impish challenge lighting his eyes as he locked them with mine.

“Just a little bit,” he quipped, tone feather-light but laced with deliberate provocation.

He knew exactly what he was doing. The line between teasing and defiance had long since blurred, and this morning—of all mornings—I had no energy left to navigate the space between.

I watched, jaw tightening, as he plucked a meatball from the lasagne’s embrace with theatrical flourish, holding it aloft like a trophy. A flicker of triumph flashed across his face—quick, boyish, maddening.

It was a small thing. Insignificant, really. A single meatball. And yet it spoke volumes—of disregard, of the fragile authority I was struggling to maintain, of a child who hadn’t yet realised the cost of his levity in a household slowly unravelling.

Without thinking, I lunged forward, hands reaching for the container, the movement sharp and sudden, driven by a desperate need to reclaim even the smallest sense of control.

But Charles, slippery as ever, danced out of reach with a swift sidestep, his laughter erupting in a burst that echoed against the tiles and cupboards, a sound that felt more mocking than innocent.

The anger flared—bright, hot, uncontrollable. It surged up my spine and into my cheeks, flushing them with heat. My hands shook.

How dare he?

How dare he treat my work, my efforts, my sanity, as if they were some sort of game?

“I was saving that food for dinner tonight,” I bit out. My voice was tight, trembling with restrained fury.

Noah stepped into the kitchen then. He paused at the threshold, sensing the tension before I’d even turned to him. I caught his eye and held it, willing him—pleading, really—to step in, to bring order to the insubordination. To say something that might make this all feel less…my fault.

My glare was a cry for backup, though I could already tell he’d hesitate, caught as always between calm mediation and silent retreat.

Thankfully, Noah, catching my gaze, stepped forward, his voice calm but edged with firmness—a tone he reserved for moments when the peace of the household teetered on collapse.

“Charles, this is important. You can't be silly about your meals. Put the food back and have a proper breakfast.”

His words hung in the air, reasonable and measured, the sort of paternal correction that usually landed with some weight. But Charles, predictably, deflected with a scoff, his movements exaggerated and theatrical as he wedged the lasagne container back between the yoghurt tubs and leftover stew.

“As if this little bit of lasagne would feed us all,” he muttered, with a dismissive shrug.

I felt the throb begin again in my temple, the pulse of frustration now a physical thing—tight, hot, relentless. My breath caught in my throat, the indignation swelling. He just didn’t get it. Any of it.

“That's not the point,” I said, my voice lower now, more dangerous. My scowl deepened, as if I could will understanding into him through sheer force. “I was going to put it with something else.”

The sarcasm in his face, the flippant roll of his eyes—it was unbearable. Mocking. As if every effort I made to hold this family together, every ounce of care I poured into their days, was invisible. Disposable.

“And besides that, you didn't ask!” I snapped, the words sharp and cold, heavy with contempt.

It wasn’t just the lasagne.

It was the disregard. The assumption that nothing mattered. That I didn’t matter.

That the small, sacred work of feeding and tending and planning could be dismissed with a smirk and a shrug.

But Charles, never one to back down from a fight, retorted with a barb of his own.

“You didn't ask to eat my last piece of chocolate either.”

The words, so petulant, so utterly beside the point, hit like a slap. The fridge door slammed shut behind him with a bang that echoed through the kitchen.

The sound seemed to crystallise the moment, freezing it in place.

For a heartbeat, everything went still.

I could feel Noah’s gaze settle on me from across the room—quiet, imploring, his brow drawn with that gentle crease he wore in moments of tension. A silent request: Don’t escalate this. Don’t let it win.

But the fury inside me roared louder than reason. That single ounce of respect, of gratitude, I longed for—it was always just out of reach.

I hesitated, lips parted as if the right words might rise to the surface. But nothing useful came. Nothing graceful.

And then, like a match struck in a room full of gas, the comeback ignited.

“You know it gives you eczema, anyway,” I said, each word laced with quiet venom, my tone cold and clipped.

I saw the sting land—Charles stiffening, his cheeks reddening not just with anger, but something deeper. Regret.

He brushed past me with a hard shoulder, the kind that wasn’t entirely accidental. It knocked the air from my lungs more than it bruised my arm.

“Where are you going?” I demanded, my voice sharp, my need for control lashing out in syllables.

But Charles didn’t slow. Didn’t glance back. His reply came flung over one shoulder, careless and cutting.

“I’ve got seminary, remember?”

And then he was gone—footsteps retreating down the hall, his bedroom door rattling in its frame.

I stood there, frozen, my hands balled into fists, heat prickling behind my eyes. The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful—it was suffocating. Dense. A heaviness that settled in the pit of my chest like ash.

It was just lasagne. Just chocolate.

But none of it felt small anymore.

Noah placed a gentle hand on my shoulder, a silent offer of comfort. But I shrugged it off, the gesture too soft against the jagged edges of my mood. I couldn’t receive it—didn’t want to. Not yet. Not when I was still bristling, raw and fragile.

My thoughts, unbidden, turned to Luke.

My wayward son. My prodigal. The one who had drifted so far, so silently, I barely recognised the boy I once held to my chest in the small hours of the morning. He was a shadow now—distant, elusive—and yet so painfully present in every thought, every prayer.

The revelation we had received, that sacred call to gather and build, pulsed at the centre of me like a second heartbeat. It was inescapable. A drumbeat. A summons. And yet… how could I speak it aloud? How could I convey the magnitude of what lay ahead when I couldn’t even hold the seams of our household together?

The doubts swelled again—dark, persuasive things.

I glanced at the clock. 6:07.

Still not yet dawn.

And already, I was worn through. If this was how the day began—with slammed doors and wasted food—what else would it hold? What other unravellings waited just beneath the surface, ready to split open without warning?

I closed my eyes and took a breath—deep, intentional, but it caught halfway down, snagged on the thorns of panic that lodged in my chest.

Focus, Greta. Breakfast. Just start there.

With the indifferent calm of a person trying to stay afloat, I turned back to the stove. Hands moved by muscle memory. Crack the eggs. Butter the pan. bread in the toaster. Simple steps, ordinary motions.

But beneath the clink of utensils and the hiss of the hotplate, something far deeper stirred—a tremor beneath the surface.

Paul. Always Paul.

His silence. His absence. The weight of it settled over me like a shroud, clinging and cold. And the revelation—the future it promised, or threatened—loomed larger than ever.

A storm was coming. I could feel it in my bones. In the silence between words. In the tension of every breath.

And we were not ready.