You are waking up, and Sarah is in the kitchen—your kitchen—having a staring contest with a recipe for chicken piccata. The blonde woman on Good Morning America recommended it as an easy weeknight dinner to make for the family, and Sarah is trying. There are bits of you, and bits of not you, everywhere in that kitchen; in the oak table that you built, in the bottle of bourbon on the shelf, in the drawer that’s been broken for months, in the dimple in Emily’s school photo. Sarah realizes she doesn’t have breadcrumbs. She surrenders, reaching for a box of Hamburger Helper. Today, like so many days now, her hair is tied loosely with a scrunchie. It’s not fitting for her age, but knowing that most of her time is spent with Edith or the kids doesn’t outweigh the few minutes a week of pity she feels from the school moms at Albertsons. Dinner is ready, and Sarah asks Nathan to turn off his Xbox, a “no-reason” gift you gave him last spring. He resists. Emily argues for the new episode of iCarly. They settle for reruns of Roseanne.