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“Do you like school?”

A shrug.

Helpful. Not.

“What do you do there?”

“Things.”

“Educational things?”

Another shrug.

I close my eyes for half a second.

This is fine. It’s all fine. Really.

I've managed multimillion dollar rollouts across four time zones with less uncertainty than one five year old and a bowl of cereal.

“Lucy,” I say carefully, “I know this is hard.”

Her fingers tighten around her spoon.

I tread with the grace of a drunk deer. “But we still have to do some normal things. School. Food. Brushing teeth. Wearing shoes that aren't slippers.”

She looks down at her feet. “I like these.”

“I’m sure you do. They’re very…” I search for the right adjective. They’re pink and shaped like rabbits. One ear has been chewed by either a dog or some other trauma. “Expressive. But we need outside shoes for school.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

I sigh. “Lucy.”

“No.”

My jaw tightens. I hear myself before I can stop myself. “We don’t have time for this.”

The second the words leave my mouth, she goes very still. Like she’s learned that becoming smaller is safer than becoming louder.

Iciness slips down my spine.

I set the coffee down.

“Sorry,” I say.

She doesn’t look at me.

I crouch beside the table, keeping distance between us. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong.”

Nothing.

I take a breath.

“We have time,” I say, though we absolutely don't. “We can find your shoes together.”