Lena rushed down the stairs and cursed the world, the tzatziki and the packing tape. She had rehearsed what she would say to him, if he ever dared come back through that door, a million times, a million and a half, but now, confronted with the reality of the car in the driveway and Ava’s shouts of paternal ebullience, all she could do was concentrate on not falling ass over end down the stairs; she wasn’t going to break her neck and lie, crumpled and dead, against the godawful floral wallpaper, not on his account.
Daddy! Ava shouted again. Lena made it to the door in time to stop Ava from unlocking it and unleashing a tidal wave of Ava-bundance on a populace all-too-familiar with the particular abundance of Ava-bundance. Lena’s hand ached from stopping herself against the door; her tzatziki-shot tailbone shouted at her.