Free Julie and Romeo Get Lucky by Jeanne Ray

roses so tiny that they might have passed for pink footballs if you didn’t look too closely, and with some real effort I was able to get him into those.
    Then he admitted he was hungry, having missed dinner last night and, honestly, lunch as well, and a cheese omelet would be perfect with some buttered wheat toast. We both agreed that cereal on one’s back would be pretty much out of the question; and a cup of coffee, if it was just warm and wouldn’t melt the straw, would make all the difference in the world. I couldn’t have been happier to do it, and he couldn’t have been nicer in asking.
    â€œWow, we’re having omelets for breakfast?” Little Tony said, setting his pile of school books down on the kitchen table.
    I did not miss a beat. “That’s right,” I said, heading back to the refrigerator for more eggs. There was time. Romeo wasn’t going anywhere. I neatly folded the one I had in the pan and slid it onto the plate, and gave it to Tony tucked between four neat triangles of toast.
    Little Tony looked at his plate, then looked at me. He blinked. “Wow,” he said again, though this time it was softer.
    Sarah made her entrance into the kitchen just as the second one was coming up, and though I needed to get upstairs, I couldn’t see how I could make an omelet for her brother, then point her toward the cereal box. I set the second one down in front of her.
    She picked up her fork and very gently touched the top to see if it was real. “Thank you,” she said. No sarcasm, no jokes.
    The children were so touched, so nearly speechless at the sight of a hot meal in the morning, that I felt like I had been a seriously bad grandmother indeed. It wouldn’t kill me to send them out into the cold world with something more sustaining than a bowl of Cheerios under their tiny belts.
    â€œGrandma, are you going to the grocery store today?” Sarah asked casually.
    I seemed to wind up at the grocery store nearly every day of my life. It called to me like upstream called to a salmon. I asked her what she needed.
    â€œJust a lottery ticket. Just one. I need a Big Game Mega Millions.”
    Her brother rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you ever play the Mass Millions? The odds are better.”
    â€œIt’s small-time,” she said.
    â€œIt’s 7 million dollars.”
    â€œMega Millions is 47 million. You aren’t very good at math.”
    â€œI’m better at math than you are.”
    â€œKids, please,” I said. I poured more eggs into the still-hot pan.
    Sarah pushed a slip of paper in my direction. “I wrote my numbers down.”
    â€œEverybody knows your numbers,” Tony said.
    â€œI told your mother I wouldn’t buy you any more tickets,” I said. “Besides, Nora just got you a dozen.”
    â€œThey were quick picks. They weren’t my numbers.”
    I had planned to be firm in my resolve, but when Big Tony walked into the room I snatched up the slip of paper and stuck it in my pocket, not wanting him to see that we were even discussing it. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if I bought her one more. It was only a dollar, after all.
    Big Tony had appeared at the very moment omelet number three was flopped onto the plate. His timing was so flawless I had to wonder if he hadn’t been pushed from the wings by some unseen stagehand. I was feeling less sanguine about the whole egg preparation business. His plate hit the table with something of a clatter while I picked up the children’s dishes and ferried them back to the sink. I went back to the refrigerator and took the last two eggs from their cardboard nest. Inappropriately, I thought of Nora, so many eggs. Sandy rushed into the room in a flurry of getting ready to go but she stopped, hopeful, and said, “Eggs?”
    I am ashamed to say I raised my butter knife. “No! I only have two left, and they’re not for