Chapter 9 - The Empty Shelf
My apartment in Tempe was seventy-five miles from a palace. It was an eight-hundred-square-foot, two-bedroom unit on the second floor of a complex built in the late eighties. The carpets were slightly worn, the kitchen counters were faux-granite laminate, and the balcony overlooked a cluster of date palms and the community pool.
But it was bright. The walls were painted a warm, butter-yellow, and sunlight poured through the sliding glass doors all afternoon.
We spent the first two hours unpacking. We hung Sydney’s watercolor landscapes—desert sunsets, jagged purple mountains, and a vibrant field of poppies—on the bedroom walls using blue painter’s tape. We set her flute case on her nightstand beside a lamp with a base shaped like an owl.
When we finished, Sydney stood in the center of her room, her hands tucked deep into the front pocket of her hoodie. She looked around at her things, looking slightly disoriented, like a diver coming up for air after being submerged too long.
"Mom?"
"Yeah, sweetie?"
"Can we go to the grocery store?"
I stopped folding a quilt and looked at her. Her expression was guarded, testing the waters, unsure if she was allowed to cross this invisible line.
"We can go wherever you want," I said softly. "Grab your shoes."
We drove five minutes down Rural Road to the Safeway on Southern. The late-afternoon sun had softened into brilliant shades of magenta and copper across the Phoenix horizon.
Inside the store, the bright lights, cold air, and smells of fresh rotisserie chicken and floral bouquets felt entirely ordinary to everyone else pushing their carts through the aisles. To Sydney, it was clearly territory that required extreme caution.
I grabbed a metal cart and handed her the handle. "You drive."
Sydney pushed the cart slowly, keeping it perfectly centered in the aisle, carefully avoiding other shoppers as if an accidental bump would result in an expulsion.
We walked through the produce section. I tossed in a bag of Honeycrisp apples, two cartons of strawberries, and baby carrots.
"Do you want grapes, Syd? The red ones look good."
"Are they on sale?" she asked automatically.
I stopped the cart. I reached out and took both of her hands in mine, lifting them off the metal handlebar.
"Sydney, look at me."
She looked up, her hazel eyes wide and questioning.
"We don't buy food based on whether you deserve it," I said, keeping my voice gentle but fierce. "We buy food because you live here. You are my daughter. You will never, ever have to check a price tag to see if you’re allowed to eat in my house. If you want the grapes, we get the grapes."
She looked down at the mound of red grapes beneath the misting sprayer, then back at me. A tiny, shy smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. "Can we get the green ones instead? The sour ones?"
"Green ones it is." I dropped a large bag into the cart.
We moved down the aisles. Sydney watched me put in pasta, cheese, sourdough bread, peanut butter, and Greek yogurt. But as we approached Aisle 4—the cereal aisle—her steps slowed.
The aisle stretched out before us, an explosion of bright cardboard boxes: bright reds, blues, yellows, cartoons, and prize advertisements.
Sydney stopped three feet from the shelf.
There, resting on the third shelf down, was a turquoise-and-orange box with the cartoon drawing of a smiling cinnamon stick: *Cinnamon Toast Crunch.* Right next to it was the store-brand equivalent: *Cinnamon Squares. $3.89.*
Sydney reached her hand out, her fingers hovering an inch from the cardboard box, but she didn't touch it. She pulled her hand back, her throat moving as she swallowed.
"You can take it, Syd," I said, leaning against the cart.
"Brian said..." She stopped, her voice trailing off into a whisper. She looked down at the linoleum floor. "Brian said this cereal was pure sugar. He said Courtney only bought Jack the oat clusters because they had real protein, and that I only wanted this because I was being lazy."
"Your father was lying to you, Sydney," I said plainly. "He was using cereal to punish me, and he was using you to do it."
I stepped forward, reached past her, and pulled the box of cinnamon squares off the shelf. Then I pulled down the brand-name Cinnamon Toast Crunch. And then, for good measure, I grabbed a box of chocolate-filled cereal she had mentioned wanting two years ago.
I placed all three boxes into the basket.
Sydney stared at the cart, her eyes wide. "Mom, that’s three boxes."
"And tomorrow morning, you can open every single one of them at the same time," I said, smiling at her. "You can mix them in one giant bowl if you want. We can pour whole milk over it, or almond milk, or we can just eat them dry with our fingers while we watch cartoons in our pajamas. There are no rules about breakfast in this house, except that you eat until you’re full."
Sydney let out a breath she seemed to have been holding since June. She reached into the cart, picked up the box of cinnamon squares, and hugged it against her chest like a prized possession.
When we got back to the apartment, we unpacked the groceries together.
I pointed to the wide, three-tiered pantry cabinet beside the refrigerator. I had cleared out the entire middle shelf before we left for the courthouse that morning. It was bare, clean, white laminate.
"This is your shelf," I said. "Put whatever you want on it."
Sydney placed the three cereal boxes in a neat row. Beside them, she arranged her green grapes, a box of cheese crackers, and a six-pack of fruit juices.
She stood back, looking at the shelf. There were no plastic bins. There was no Sharpie with Jack’s name. There was no 'Household' label warning her that her share was limited.
It was just food. Hers. Ours.
May you like
That night, for the first time in six months, Sydney Hayes fell asleep with her bedroom door wide open, her nightlight casting a warm, amber glow down the hallway, her breathing slow, deep, and completely untroubled.
***
