Beatriz liked the kitchen. Erik suspected it was because he started every morning there with her, singing to her and rocking her in one arm or the baby carrier while he made breakfast. He was getting good at holding her on one arm and doing everything else with the other. She played with his beard while he made a fresh round of tea, and began to smack her lips just as he’d finished popping the mugs on a tray.
“Lauren!”
“What?”
“Has Andreas fed her yet?”
“No, she didn’t want her lunch!”
She was almost four months old, and they were starting to give her little dabs of food as treats, like peanut butter or honey on the end of her dummy or a finger, or smooth soups. But she wasn’t quite ready to be fully weaned yet, and Erik opted for the faster and simpler feeding route, in light of the impending tantrum that he could sense coming. He shook out the formula into a bottle, rummaged for the milk, and shoved the completed mix into the microwave.