The kitchen erupted into chaos.

Isaiah sat on the floor, tangled in the red-and-white checkered tablecloth and covered in mayo-laden potato salad, his mouth wide open as he wailed. Pieces of fried chicken were strewn across the floor, while the pitcher of iced tea spread into a fast-growing puddle. Meanwhile, Mama’s carefully constructed sandwiches were in pieces—bits of bread, ham, and cheese were scattered all over.

“Shh, you’re okay,” I murmured, scooping up the sobbing Isaiah and kissing away his tears. I turned to Mama, who was rummaging under the sink for the dustpan and broom. “I’ll get him cleaned up!” I practically had to shout to be heard over Isaiah’s screams.

“Shoot, Mama, I’m sorry, he just got away from me,” Peter said, kneeling down and gingerly picking up pieces of fried chicken.

“Grab the mop and help me salvage what we can,” Mama replied quickly. “Your father will be back from the Dicksons’ soon, and he’ll be hungry.”

I left Peter and Mama and took a now-sniffling Isaiah to the bathroom, where I stripped him down and popped him in the shower.

“You’re just a little agent of chaos, hm?” I asked as I gently tested the water temperature before guiding the showerhead over him.

Isaiah giggled in reply, wriggling happily under the stream of warm water. His temper tantrum dissipated just as quickly as it had come on. I grinned as he played with the sudsy bubbles. He was so dang cute.

One day I’ll have a baby of my own, I thought to myself. The thought took me by surprise. I’d never even thought about it before. But, well, after sex came…babies. That was the way life went in Sloane, Iowa. I remembered the song Elsie and I had sung as kids: First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in the baby carriage… It didn’t mention sex anywhere in there, but between marriage and baby, one could only assume…

“Rora! I’m clean now!” Isaiah’s voice squeaked its way into my thoughts, and he stretched his arms up to me, clearly eager to end his shower.

One day a kid will be saying “Mama” instead of “Rora,” I thought. Is this my future? Babies and tornadoes and godly men coming home for a lunch that I put on the table? I tried to ignore the thoughts, but they followed me as I scooped Isaiah up, wrapped him in an oversized towel, and carried him upstairs to his bedroom to get him dressed.

I was watching and waiting for Isaiah to try, for the third time, to get his head into the neck hole of his t-shirt instead of one of the arm holes, when my cell phone buzzed. I dug it out of my jeans pocket and looked at the caller ID. Aunt Sukie. My favorite aunt. I wanted to answer, but before I could, Peter popped his head into Isaiah’s room.

“Pops is back, and lunch is salvaged,” he announced. “Who’s calling?” he added, seeing the phone in my hand.

“Owen,” I said hastily as I rejected the call and shoved my phone into my pocket. I didn’t want Peter to know it was Aunt Sukie and blab to our parents. She was the black sheep of the family, and our parents wouldn’t be happy to know I was talking to her.

“Mm-hm.” Peter eyed me skeptically, clearly not believing my white lie.

I rolled my eyes at him and scooped up Isaiah, who’d finally managed to get his t-shirt on, and we followed Peter downstairs to the kitchen.

I wish they didn’t all hate Aunt Sukie so much, I thought sadly. Aunt Sukie was cool and mysterious. She’d left little old Sloane, Iowa, and moved to New York City when she was in her twenties—about the same age as I was now, actually. I wondered what it was like. Having your own career, mingling with all those people in the big city… I would’ve loved to visit Aunt Sukie. But I knew my parents would never allow it in a million years.

In the kitchen, Mama and Daddy were already seated at the table.

“Good, we were just getting ready to say grace,” Dad said, nodding to the empty chairs.

I popped Isaiah into his high chair and took my seat. While mom fussed around Isaiah and got him settled, I slipped my phone out of my pocket and started to text Aunt Sukie back, telling her I’d call her later.

“Aurora, what have I said about phones at the table?” my dad said sternly.

“Aw, she’s just writing some lovey-dovey messages to Owen, Pops!” Peter said with a laugh. Then, before I could stop him, he reached over and snatched my phone right out of my hand.