The Helper’s Harmony EP2
Chapter 2: "The Allergy Incident"
Sarah’s Rule #2: If the red container isn’t used, assume peanuts are present.
The morning sun filtered through the kitchen blinds, casting stripes of light over the counter where May arranged Lily’s lunch. She carefully placed carrot sticks in the red container—NO PEANUTS, per the frayed Post-it stuck to the fridge—and hummed a Burmese lullaby she’d sung to Noah earlier. Her notebook lay open to yesterday’s entry:
April 15: Lily’s lunch – red container (peanut-free), grapes, rice cakes. DONE.
In the dining room, Lily swung her legs under the table, recounting her laundry room rescue to a captivated audience of stuffed animals. “...and then Dad prised the door open! Like a superhero! But with a screwdriver!”
Tom chuckled, sliding a pancake onto her plate. “Eat up, astronaut. Your mission to Mars leaves in 20 minutes.”
Sarah rushed in, Noah propped on her hip, her blouse mismatched in her pre-dawn haze. “May, did you—” She froze, staring at the lunchbox. “Why is the yellow container in there?”
May followed her gaze to the small tub of sunflower butter. “It’s… peanut-free. Like the note said.”
“The new note.” Sarah shifted Noah to her other arm and yanked a neon pink Post-it from the microwave. “‘Use RED container for ALL snacks (not just lunch).’ I put this up yesterday!”
May’s stomach dropped. The pink note had been buried beneath Tom’s grocery list (kimchi, oat milk, emergency chocolate). “I didn’t see—”
“She’s fine, Sarah,” Tom interjected, peering into the lunchbox. “The sunflower butter’s in yellow, peanuts are in blue. Right, Lil?”
Lily nodded, mouth full of pancake. “May let me stick the labels! See?” She brandished a blue dinosaur sticker on the peanut butter jar.
Sarah’s phone buzzed—a reminder: PEDIATRICIAN 10 AM – NOAH’S VACCINES. She shoved the lunchbox at Tom. “Just… repack it. I can’t be late again.”
10:34 AM: May scrubbed the bathroom tiles, the rhythmic motion steadying her nerves. Through the window, she glimpsed Sarah’s car peeling out of the driveway—late, again, after discovering Noah’s favorite pacifier in the freezer.
Tom’s voice floated up the stairs. “...no, the teacher called? When?”
May paused. A muffled reply from Lily: “...said my angry mommy drawings are ‘expressive.’”
A beat of silence. “Are they… about Mom?”
“She’s not angry angry. Just…” Lily mimed typing frantically on an invisible keyboard, complete with dramatic sighs.
May returned to scrubbing, her chest tight. Back home, Nu’s last message glowed in her memory: “Sister, the doctors say I can work again if I get the surgery. How much longer?”
The doorbell rang.
12:17 PM: Sarah stared at the pediatrician’s clipboard, Noah’s screams echoing off the germ-resistant walls. Vaccine reactions: None, she scribbled, her pen digging into the paper. The nurse’s voice grated: “...might consider sleep training if the colic persists…”
Her phone lit up with a photo from Tom: Lily’s lunchbox, now correctly packed. Beneath it, a second image—May’s notebook entry, circled in red: April 15: Followed red container rule.
A text followed: Schedule changed yesterday. She didn’t know.
Sarah deleted her draft reply (Then she should’ve ASKED) when the phone rang.
“Mrs. Chen? This is St. Luke’s Elementary. We’ve had a… concerning artwork incident.”
3:02 PM: May froze in the hallway, spray bottle dangling from her hand. Sarah’s voice, usually clipped and precise, wavered behind Lily’s bedroom door:
“...think I’m angry all the time?”
“No! It’s just…” Lily’s voice dropped. “You make that scrunchy face. Like when Daddy burned the cookies.”
“That was a four-alarm fire, Lily!”
A giggle. Then, softly: “May doesn’t scrunch. Even when I spill.”
May backed away, cheeks burning. In the kitchen, Tom studied Lily’s drawing taped to the fridge—a stick-figure Sarah with laser eyes incinerating a laundry mountain.
“Brilliant use of color,” he said as May entered. “Ever think of selling prints?”
She managed a smile. “In Myanmar, my sister painted movie posters. Big… um…” She mimed a billboard.
“Bilbor!”
“Billboards, yes! For Tom Cruise films.”
Tom snapped his fingers. “That’s it! We’ll put Lily’s art on buses. ‘Beware of Laundry Dragons’—”
The garage door groaned. Sarah marched in, heels clacking, and headed straight for the sink.
“Everything okay?” Tom asked.
“Peanut incident averted. Art therapist booked.” She scrubbed her hands raw. “The floor feels sticky. Did you—”
“May mopped twice,” Tom said. “It’s the new polish you bought.”
Sarah crouched, running her palm across the tiles. “It’s… not evenly coated.”
May’s throat closed. She’d followed the instructions—1/4 cup per gallon—but the bottle’s label had been covered by a Post-it: NOAH’S BATH TEMP – 98.6°F!!!
“I’ll redo it,” May whispered.
“No, I’ll handle it.” Sarah yanked the mop from the closet.
Tom intercepted, his chef’s hands gentle on the handle. “Sarah. Breathe.”
“I am breathing! But if the floor’s not sealed properly, mold grows in the grout, and Noah’s already got—”
A crash echoed upstairs.
All three froze.
“Lily?” Sarah sprinted toward the stairs.
Tom shot May an apologetic glance. “Welcome to the Chen Family Circus.”
But May was already rewinding the morning in her head—where did I put the polish instructions?—as Sarah’s voice drifted down:
“Lily Chen! Is that my work laptop in the fish tank?!”