TUESDAY || AUGUST 3rd || 2021
[Present time]
Heidi Baxter's POV ~
As if Heidi Baxter didn't already have enough on her plate, the universe decided to add insult to injury. A foul, throat-coating smell drifted up from the stove, thick and acrid, the unmistakable sign that something in her kitchen had died a dramatic, smoky death. Again.
She spun away from the stove, her wild blonde curls springing with a sunlit defiance entirely at odds with her mood and zeroed in on the pan that had once held the family's dinner. Now it cradled a blackened, smoldering slab that might, at one point, have been chicken...or possibly one of her abandoned art projects come back from the dead.
It was hard to tell.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," Heidi muttered, swatting at the growing cloud of smoke with a dish towel. The movement jostled the baby strapped to her chest, and the small yellow duck Winnie was holding slipped through her tiny fingers, hitting the floor with a soft, traitorous squeak.
The scream that followed was instant and seismic, a wail powerful enough to rattle the cupboard doors. The smoke alarm soon joined, its shrill repetitive beeps filling the house, over and over. Winnie's cries rose right along with it, little legs kicking against Heidi's torso, fists clenched in righteous baby fury.
And yet despite all of it, Heidi could still hear the unmistakable sounds of her youngest two daughters arguing down the hallway, a rising tide of indignation and Baxter-level dramatics.
Heidi opened a window, a gust of hot Los Angeles air pushed in, helping to tame the smoke. So much so, that she could see the garage door opening through the fog.
In stepped her husband Thomas Baxter, with his usually impeccable tie hanging loose and his suit jacket draped neatly over one arm. He halted in the doorway for a split second, his eyes sweeping over a house that looked as if a smoky tornado had blown straight through it.
Setting down his briefcase, he climbed onto a chair and silenced the shrieking smoke alarm with the ease of a man who had done so far too many times before.
"Rough day?" he called over the remaining noise in the house, sidestepping a pile of crayons and spilled crackers so he could kiss his wife's cheek.
"Everything's just peachy," Heidi shot back, her curls bouncing with each irritated flick. Tom unclipped the baby carrier and scooped a screaming Winnie into his arms.
"What happened?" he murmured to the wailing infant, brow creasing as he bounced her gently. "This isn't like you."
"Well, it is now," Heidi retorted, her knees popping as she fished the yellow duck off the floor and rinsed it in the sink. "She has been crying... all... day... long."
Footsteps thundered down the hall a moment later. Their almost eight-year-old daughter Imogen flung herself at Tom's legs, and five-year-old Estelle stormed after her, short white curls bouncing with her angry movements.
Both started shouting and signing at once.
[A/N: capitalized and bold letters signify ASL, and any regular dialogue that has bold letters means that it's being said verbally and signed at the same time.]
DADDY, STELLA'S GIVING AWAY MY TOYS! TELL HER TO STOP! Imogen signed in rapid, furious motions.
"Don't listen to her! She's being a meanie!" Estelle yelled, stomping her tiny foot for emphasis.
I'M NOT MEAN, YOU ARE! Immy fired back, exaggerating every sign just to get under her sister's skin.
"No, YOU are!" Stella bellowed, "You're a mean, mean, meanie!"
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