“I need to sleep late, meditate, and restore my feminine energy, and you people will be walking through here all day.” “Then sleep with earplugs and an eye mask,” Dasha said with a pleasant smile. “Or call a rideshare right now and go back to your studio.”
“Mike, help your guests move their bags into the living room, and please wipe up the puddle your mother tracked in. I’d rather not have my floors warp from all that feminine energy.” Then she turned and walked into the kitchen. The kettle on the stove gave a low irritated hum as it heated.
Dasha had no intention of screaming or throwing dishes. She knew better than that. The first person to lose control usually loses the argument. This situation called for patience, precision, and timing.
Saturday morning, the sabotage began. At seven-thirty, Dasha walked into the kitchen and found Susan there. The heartbroken guest was lounging at the table in a silk robe, one leg crossed over the other.
In front of her sat a steaming mug of Dasha’s imported Ethiopian coffee, and on a plate were the remains of the aged Gruyère Dasha bought only for her own quiet Saturday evening treat. “Oh, you’re up already?” Susan said lazily, stirring the coffee with a spoon. “By the way, do you not have regular milk? Just this oat stuff?”
“That oat stuff is for my coffee,” Dasha said, walking to the sink and filling a glass with water. “And I assume the cheese was part of your emotional recovery plan?”
“Oh, come on, don’t be stingy with family.” “Mike said everything in the fridge was for everybody.” Mike, apparently, had forgotten who stocked that fridge.
Later that day, seven-year-old Nastya sat at her desk building a large diplodocus out of blocks. She hummed softly to herself, absorbed in the work. The door opened without a knock, and Susan appeared in the doorway, with Eleanor hovering right behind her….
