Zoey spent the next two seeks more bored than she’d ever been. Thankfully, she had since improved enough that she was able to wonder around the house without getting becoming overly dizzy and disorientated.

She spent lots of the time sitting around the kitchen table with her parents, not really talking about anything, but enjoying their warm company all the same. Yet, both her parents where school teachers, meaning that often she would wonder the rooms of her home all alone.

Generally, she didn’t mind the peace and quiet, but recently it had just been lonely. She cherished the moments in the morning and afternoons, and looked forward to the weekends where she would surround herself with the people she loved most.

Today, after father had gone to catch up with a few of his childhood friends, Zoey and her mother stood in the kitchen baking muffins. The aroma in the air was soft, filled with hints of cinnamon and a sweet sugary aftertaste. Her fingers were sticky with dough, from where she’d sneakingly tasted the mixture. The texture was soft as she rolled it between her fingers.

It was almost a nostalgic feeling, like remembering a fuzzy moment in your childhood, broken memories wrapped around shards of emotions. For the first time in a while, she was genuinely happy.

In a large bowl, Zoey whisked milk, flour, baking powder, salt, and cinnamon. It was a simple recipe, yet one that filled her soul with joy. When her arm began to ache from the force of her mixing, she passed the bowl over to her smiling mother.

“Getting tired are you?” Her mum teased.

“It’s hard!” She smiled, playfully hitting her on the shoulder.

“Let me show you how it’s really done.”

Her mum mixed the ingredients together as though she really was a professional, scraping the spatula along the side of the bowl to gather the stray bits of flour that had gathered there. The mixture quickly became smooth, it’s gentle smell radiating across the kitchen and filling the empty rooms.

The cool air coming from the open window contrasted the warmth of the now open oven, mixing into a blend of something familiar she couldn’t quite place.

“This was my favourite recipe as a child,” her mother said at one point, a small smile pulling at the corner of her lips as she looked into the distance, recalling distant thoughts.

“How come?”

“Your grandmother used to make it all the time. I always thought that it was some baking family secret, even though the recipe can be found in like every cookbook.”

“I remember grannie making them when I was a kid too.”

“She used to love baking with you,” mum smiled. “I bet she’s watching over us baking right now.”

They moved over the island, placing chunks of dough evenly into the muffin papers. Once they’d placed the tin into the oven and set a 20 minute timer, they moved over to the dining table where mum reached over the wood to place a hand on Zoey’s upturned palm.

“So.” Mum started, a small smile keeping her features comforting. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” I muttered, avoiding eye contact.

“The nurses said that we could consider school again after two weeks.”

“So I can go back next week?”

“If you’re able to.”

Zoey looked away, her eyes glazed in thought.

“Zoey,” her mum said. “What are you feeling?”

“Well I spoke to my friends the other day. Like I told them that I’ve been feeling anxious lately and stuff.”

“What did they say?”

“They got a bit defensive when I mentioned what I’d been thinking about their own mental health, but I think it’s in like a similar way I get whenever someone questions my own. I guess they just weren’t expecting me to mention it.”

“Probably not. Have you been anxious about them over the past two weeks?”

“A little bit. I mean I’ve been able to text them and stuff—” Mums eyes narrowed at that. Obviously she knew about the first phone call, but Zoey still wasn’t meant to spend a long time on devices. An hour at most, hence the baking and constant pacing around the house. “—so I know that they’re okay, and they’ve also told me that they can handle themselves, but I can’t help getting nervous about it sometimes.”

“That’s normal when you have anxiety,” her mum said, her voice soft with empathy.

“I know.”

“I’ve been thinking about ways that your father and I can support you through this—”

“— I think you’ve been doing good. Like you don’t pressure me and you’ve helped me so much the few times I’ve had a panic attack—”

“—Well yes, but we’re hardly professionals. We can help you in the moment, but nothing is going to improve if you don’t learn how to cope with your emotions and keep yourself grounded.”

This time it was Zoey’s eyes that narrowed. “What are you suggesting.”

“Your father and I have been talking, and I think it might be beneficial for you to see a psychiatrist, go to therapy.”

Zoey’s heart rate quickened, just the thought of having to speak to a stranger making her body tingle with nerves. “No, I’m okay.”

Her mum rubbed a thumb over her knuckles comfortingly looking slightly disappointed, but as though she’d been half expecting this reaction anyways. “I think it would be good for you.”

“I’ll learn on my own,” Zoey insisted, pulling her hand away to instead pick at one of her fingernails.

“You won’t, though.”

“I can handle myself!” Zoey insisted, her voice raising slightly. “If my friends can deal with their issues themselves, then why can’t I?”

“They would benefit from therapy too, my darling.”

“Why don’t they go, then?”

“Because their parents can offer them therapy when they’re unaware.”

“Or maybe it’s because they can learn how to cope on their own. In fact, I’ve learnt how I can help them in so many ways. I’m sure I can figure this out on my own as well.”

“Your mental health is different to your friends, though.”

“Still.”

“Baby,” her mum sighed, tilting her head with some type of sadness. “Please just listen to me.”

“I am,” Zoey said, huffing in frustration. It was clear she was using anger as a way to avoid the question all together, as some sort of coping mechanism. If anything, it just made her mother’s point clearer. She would benefit from talking to a professional. That doesn’t make her any more nervous about it, though.

“Think of it this way. You know when little kids get scared because they think there are monsters in their bedrooms?”

“Yeah…?”

“Well it’s always easier to be the brave, strong person who can scare those monsters off. Once you tell them to go away and tell the kids that nothing can hurt them, then they can sleep soundly. It’s different, though, when you are the little kid who’s facing the monster themselves.”

“Are you comparing me to a little kid? I’m almost seventeen, it’s not the same.”

“And I’m your mother. You’re still a little kid to me.”

“Either way, isn’t the whole point that you can’t depend on other people to scare your monsters for you?”

“You can’t depend on them, but they can help you feel a little bit less scared. They can help you find the weapons that you need to scare the monsters on your own. Does that make sense?”

Zoey nodded, considering her mums thoughts.

“I’m not saying you have to see anyone,” she continued. “But I would love for you to consider it.”

“Fine,” Zoey said, no frustration smudging her words.

“Thank you.”

And with that, as though the universe had been waiting, the muffin timer beeped from the kitchen. “Let’s grab the muffins,” her mother smiled, the heavy tension dissipating from the room and being replaced with that same comfortable nostalgia and fragmented memories of cinnamon and warmth.

“Finally,” Zoey said, rolling her eyes with faux annoyance.

Once taking the tray out of the oven, mum took out the largest muffin and placed it on a small saucer. “Taste test,” she smiled, cutting it in half and giving the larger one to Zoey.

It was still hot, but the flavours melted satisfyingly on Zoey’s tongue. “It’s delicious,” she smiled, taking another bite.  

Later that night, once her father had returned from meeting his friends and the sun had been replaced with the moon, the family of three sat bunched up on the sofa watching a family favourite movie.

Zoey smiled as she rested her head upon her mothers shoulder, feeling the soft rhythym of her breathing and sticcato of her heartbeat. It was times like this where she could truly cherish her life and her family. She was so fucking lucky to have parents that care for her and wanted the best. It was something she couldn't never take for granted, and would never be able to live without.

She was so thankfull for her mother, and their cinnamon filled talks.