Under The Lid

The kitchen was thick with steam, windows fogged, and every burner alive. Oil crackled. A timer blared and was silenced with the back of her flour-dusted wrist. She rocked the baby on her hip, shifting her weight from foot to foot, trying to hum something—anything—to calm the wailing.

Dinner was in an hour.

Her eyes darted to the clock. She hadn’t even marinated the lamb yet.

The baby cried harder.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” she whispered, though the words came out more like a plea than comfort.

She stared at the ceiling, pleading with the heavens.

She crossed the living room—past the toy-strewn rug and the armchair where she used to nurse—to the cradle. Her body felt hot, overstimulated, like her skin was humming. She pressed a kiss to her daughter’s forehead and laid her down, gently, tenderly. The baby whimpered once more, then blinked sleepily.

She stood there for a moment longer, hands on the edge of the cradle, trying to breathe. The kitchen called and this time she answered, she ran.

Back in the heat, she moved with purpose. Lamb from the fridge. Knife on the board. She rubbed in spices, garlic, rosemary, salt. Her hands moved on muscle memory, barely thinking. The oven roared when opened. In went the meat.

By the time the doorbell rang, her dress was on, hair was pinned, and the table was glowing with candles. She even managed lipstick. The guests filed in, filling the room with laughter, arms outstretched, compliments flowing.

Her signature dish arrived at the center of the table to a chorus of delight. The aroma of perfectly grilled lamb enveloped the room. Glasses clinked. Someone made a toast. Another asked for seconds.

She smiled. She laughed.

Dinner was a triumph.

After everyone had gone and the last plate was scraped and stacked, she wiped her counters with rhythmic determination, humming now—tired but satisfied. The house smelled of warmth and garlic and celebration.

Then she glanced at the clock.

Nearly seven hours had passed.

She blinked. That couldn’t be right. Her baby never slept that long.

A flutter of unease passed through her.

She washed her hands, drying them on her apron, and made her way upstairs.

The hallway was dim, moonlight spilling in through the high window. She reached the nursery door and pushed it open, already rehearsing her apology to the little one for letting her sleep so long.

But the cradle was silent.

Still.

Empty.

No, not empty.

There was something swaddled inside.

Her heart stalled.

She stepped closer, the breath in her throat sharp as knives.

Laid gently in the cradle, wrapped with unsettling care, was a lamb. Headless. Skinned. Perfectly roasted.

She couldn’t scream.

Her hands moved to her mouth, her knees weakening.

In her memory: the heat, the crying, the steam rising, the moment—just a moment—when she needed both hands. Just a minute. Just long enough to forget which bundle she had laid where.

Just long enough to make a terrible, irreversible mistake.