A Polish nanny who didn't know English, the first to see through my secret hidden in the food.-3

The Kitchen Procedure
The TV blares a talk show in the living room. I enter the kitchen and close the door. The cupboard door sticks slightly. Reaching inside, my fingers find the blue mug. The bottom feels tacky. The pill bottle hides behind the oatmeal container. Unscrew the cap. Tip three white pills into my palm. Dump them onto the counter. Crush them with the back of a spoon.
Press down several times until they become powder. Half a kettle of water left. Pour it in. Stir with the spoon. The water turns milky white. I stare into the cup for a few seconds, then lift it and drink. Bitter. Much worse than swallowing whole pills. Rinse the cup with water, invert it on the drying rack. Drips fall from the rim. One. Two. I stand there, listening to the drops, palms braced on the counter. Pushing the kitchen door open, the TV still blares. The living room is empty, lights on.

Deciding to Hire Help
Saturday morning. Emma sits at the kitchen table, "Look at this." I walk over, stand behind her chair. "I calculated," Emma says, scrolling down, "we spend nearly twenty hours a week on this." "Maybe," I murmur. "Based on our average hourly rate," she continues, "if we worked those twenty hours, it would more than cover hiring someone to do it all." I stay silent.

she gestures towards the kitchen, "and the trash isn't out." I look. Plates pile high in the sink. "I need help, Tom," she says, eyes still on the screen, I look at her. The shadows beneath her eyes are pronounced. "Didn't sleep well?" "Stressed." Silence hangs between us. "I've already posted the job," Emma finally says, "on Caregiver’s site." "When?" "Last night. Got three responses." She turns the laptop towards me.  "You decide," I say. "Need your agreement." Her eyes meet mine. "I agree." She nods.

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