My Sister Mocked My Kitchen Routine — She Had No Idea I Was Spiraling

Part 2

The lock clicked loudly and the heavy wooden door swung open into the hallway.

I did not stop stirring the risotto as I listened to the heavy footsteps enter.

Nobody ever came to my apartment in the middle of the week without texting first.

I wiped my damp hands on the front of my stained apron.

I walked slowly out of the kitchen and peered into the living room.

My sister Megan stood in the entryway shaking a soaking wet umbrella onto the rug.

She did not wait for an invitation before pushing past me into the room.

She dropped an enormous tote bag onto my pristine floor with a loud thud.

Her eyes darted around the apartment before settling directly on my apron.

She asked me why I looked like I was preparing for an intense surgical procedure.

I closed the front door behind her and leaned my forehead against the cool wood.

I had absolutely no idea what kind of chaos she had just dragged into my home.

Megan was the physical embodiment of everything I tried to keep out of my life.

She changed jobs every six months and dated people whose last names she barely knew.

She thrived in the unpredictable currents of modern life that terrified me.

She kicked off her wet boots and left them in the middle of the hallway.

I took a slow breath and walked back into the kitchen to check the stove.

The risotto was dangerously close to burning while I was distracted.

I poured another ladle of warm chicken broth into the hot pan.

I began to stir with forceful and methodical circular motions.

I needed the kitchen to remain a quiet sanctuary of order.

Megan followed me into the cramped space and leaned against the counter.

She crunched loudly on a pickle spear she had pulled from my refrigerator.

She watched me work with a look of mild amusement on her face.

She asked me why I always made things that required standing in one place for an hour.

I did not look up from the swirling rice as I kept my voice perfectly level.

I told her that good things take time and require careful attention.

She rolled her eyes and took another loud bite of the pickle.

She told me I was just hiding from my phone and the rest of the world.

I tightened my grip on the wooden spoon until my knuckles ached.

I could not explain the absolute necessity of cause and effect to her.

I needed the certainty that heat and friction would eventually soften the rice.

Megan tossed the empty pickle spear into the small trash can under the sink.

She crossed her arms over her chest and stared directly at me.

She asked me if I had seen the email from our landlord this afternoon.

The wooden spoon stopped moving completely.

I stared at the center of the pan as the broth bubbled up in slow bursts.

I asked her what email she was talking about.

She pulled her phone from her pocket and tapped the screen a few times.

She read aloud that the building was being sold to a development company next month.

The heat from the stove suddenly felt suffocating and heavy.

I felt the familiar tightening in my chest that I had experienced in the candy aisle.

The ground was shifting under my feet while I was standing perfectly still.

I grabbed the handle of the skillet and shook it violently.

The mushrooms leaped into the air and landed back in the sizzling butter.

I stepped back from the stove as the air in my lungs felt thin and useless.

I looked at the perfectly arranged ingredients on my cutting board.

None of it mattered if the kitchen itself was going to disappear.

Megan stared at me with her eyebrows raised as the silence stretched between us.

How were we supposed to rebuild our entire lives when the foundation was actively crumbling beneath our feet?