Madison’s World Redux Season 3 Episode 58

“Is anyone else hungry?” Madison asked. 

Her stomach answered before anyone else could. 

The growl was loud enough that Greg startled in her hand, his small body flinching before he could stop it. Madison looked down at him and laughed, not unkindly, but with the easy embarrassment of someone whose own body had interrupted the room. 

“Sorry, Dad.” 

Greg adjusted his grip against her fingers. “That was impressive.” 

“I could eat,” Krysi said immediately, as if Madison’s stomach had simply announced the next official activity. 

Emma glanced toward her with faint amusement. “Your stomach is like an endless pit. It is simply amazing how much you can eat and not gain a single pound.” 

Krysi shrugged, already stretching her legs off the couch. “It’s hereditary. My whole family is like this.” 

“I need some of those genes,” Emma said. 

Ava looked up from where Cindy sat in her hand. “You say that until you meet her uncles. Then you understand the food bill.” 

Madison stood with Greg held securely against her chest. “Let’s make something to eat.” 

Greg felt her fingers shift around him as she adjusted her hold, not squeezing, just making sure he was close and supported while she moved. Cindy watched from Ava’s hand, still seated stiffly, still trying to recover the pieces of herself Ava’s earlier petting had scattered. 

Madison was already heading toward the kitchen when she called back over her shoulder, “Ava, bring the recipe book.” 

Ava paused. 

“The what?” 

“The recipe book,” Madison said, as if the answer was obvious. 

Ava looked toward the counter, then toward the small shelf near the dining room where Cindy used to keep actual cookbooks. “Uh… where is the recipe book?” 

Madison stopped at the kitchen entrance and turned around. 

“You’re carrying it.” 

Ava’s eyes dropped to Cindy. 

For a second, Cindy thought she might actually laugh. Not because it was funny, but because the alternative was screaming. Recipe book. That was what Madison had called her. Not Mom. Not even Cindy. Not “help me cook.” Recipe book. 

Something to be opened when needed. 

Something that contained instructions. 

Something useful because it had been written in before anyone currently using it cared who had written the pages. 

Krysi moved past Ava and tugged open the refrigerator door. “Madison just holds her in front of the fridge so she can see what’s there.” 

She said it casually, already familiar with the process. That made it worse. This was not some new indignity created in the moment. It was a system. A habit. A domestic routine Madison had developed and Krysi had seen enough times to explain to someone else. 

Madison stepped closer, Greg still in one hand. “Close your fist around her lightly,” she told Ava. “Just enough to keep in the warmth. Don’t actually squeeze.” 

Ava nodded, taking the instruction seriously. 

Cindy stiffened as Ava’s fingers curved around her. They did not press hard. Technically, Ava did exactly what Madison said. Her hand formed a loose shelter around Cindy’s body, keeping the cold air of the open refrigerator from hitting her directly while still allowing Cindy to see through the gap between Ava’s fingers. 

The cold reached her anyway. 

Not painfully, but sharply enough that Cindy’s skin prickled. The refrigerator’s light spilled over her, bright and clinical, illuminating shelves of food she used to organize herself. Plastic containers. Condiments. Produce drawers. A carton of eggs. A half-used tub of butter. Madison’s drinks. Leftovers Cindy would once have labeled. 

Now she was being held in front of them like a living inventory app. 

Ava moved her slowly from shelf to shelf. 

Cindy swallowed her pride because everyone was waiting. 

“Take out the chicken breasts,” Cindy said, forcing the words into usefulness. “The celery, carrots, and onions. We’ll need the fresh rosemary too.” 

Krysi reached in immediately, pulling items out and setting them on the counter with the confidence of someone who knew where most things were because she had spent too much time in this kitchen. 

“Then take me to the spice cabinet,” Cindy said. 

Ava looked to Madison, as if checking whether to obey Cindy directly counted. 

Madison nodded. “Go ahead.” 

That nod irritated Cindy almost as much as the recipe book comment. Her instructions only became valid once Madison authorized them. 

“Ms. Snyder,” Cindy continued, clinging to the only authority left to her, “get the glass baking pan. You know where it is.” 

“Yep,” Krysi said, already moving. 

“Emma,” Cindy said, then caught herself. 

Emma turned slowly. 

Cindy felt Ava’s fingers shift around her. 

“Ms. Harrington,” Cindy corrected, the title bitter in her mouth. “Please get the cutting boards and start dicing the vegetables. They do not need to be finely diced, but no one wants big chunks either.” 

Emma smiled faintly. “How practical.” 

Cindy lowered her eyes. “Yes, Ms. Harrington.” 

Emma collected the cutting boards with the same composed efficiency she brought to everything. She did not look insulted by the task. If anything, she seemed amused to be participating in an American household meal under the direction of Cindy Wessen reduced to culinary reference material. 

Madison set Greg down on the far side of the counter, on a folded dish towel she placed there after a second’s thought. “Stay there, Dad. Away from the edge.” 

Greg looked toward the drop beside him and did not argue. “Yes, Ms. Wessen.” 

Madison smiled at the title and brushed one finger gently over his head before turning back to the food. 

Cindy noticed. 

Of course she noticed. 

Greg got a towel. A safe place. A soft command. Affection as routine. Cindy got Ava’s hand closing around her like a loose cage while she was held up to cabinets and drawers. 

Ava carried Cindy to the spice cabinet and opened it. 

The smell hit Cindy immediately. Paprika. Garlic powder. Onion powder. Thyme. Black pepper. The warm, dry blend of seasonings she had used for years without thinking about it. At human size, the spice cabinet had been ordinary, even slightly annoying when someone shoved things back in the wrong place. At Little size, the bottles rose like a strange city of labeled towers. 

“Garlic powder,” Cindy said. “Black pepper. Paprika. A little thyme. Salt from the counter. And the olive oil.” 

Madison began setting things out, humming to herself. “Okay. Chicken and vegetables. Are we doing like roasted chicken?” 

“Sheet pan chicken,” Cindy said. “Simple. Since everyone is apparently hungry now.” 

“Recipe book has attitude,” Krysi said from the lower cabinet. 

Cindy looked toward her sharply. 

Krysi grinned as she pulled out the glass baking dish. “What? You do.” 

Ava’s thumb shifted near Cindy’s side. “Be polite, Cindy.” 

Cindy inhaled through her nose. “My apologies, Ms. Cruz.” 

Madison glanced over, but her attention did not linger. To her, Ava correcting Cindy in the kitchen was already acceptable. Normal. Convenient. 

Emma began chopping celery with tidy precision. Her knife work was controlled, though slower than Cindy would have preferred. Krysi washed carrots at the sink and peeled them with the casual speed of someone who cooked enough at home not to be helpless. Madison unwrapped the chicken breasts and placed them into the glass pan, making a face at the cold texture. 

“Ew. I hate touching raw chicken.” 

“Then wash your hands after,” Greg said from his dish towel. 

Madison turned her head. “Dad.” 

“What?” 

“I know to wash my hands.” 

“I’m just saying.” 

“You’re giving grill dad again,” Krysi said. 

Greg looked offended. “Food safety is not grill dad.” 

“It kind of is,” Ava said. 

Emma glanced at Greg with mild interest. “At least he remains useful in advisory form.” 

Greg’s mouth closed. 

Madison laughed lightly and went to the sink. 

Cindy watched the exchange with a complicated twist in her chest. Greg’s advice had been dismissed, but gently. Teased away. He could still speak and be mocked affectionately. Cindy’s instructions were obeyed only because they served the meal, and even then, they passed through the filter of Madison’s ownership. 

Ava carried her closer to the counter once the ingredients were gathered. “Where do you want me?” 

“Near the pan,” Cindy said. 

Ava held her above the counter, close enough for Cindy to see the layout. The glass baking pan sat in the center, chicken breasts pale and slick inside it. Carrots, celery, and onions waited on cutting boards. Madison returned with clean hands and immediately checked her phone with one pinky before Cindy could object. 

“Do not touch your phone after handling raw chicken unless you washed before touching it,” Cindy said. 

Madison froze. 

“I did wash.” 

“Then fine.” 

“Ms. Wessen,” Ava said. 

Cindy’s jaw tightened. “Then fine, Ms. Wessen.” 

Madison gave her a look that was half warning, half amusement. “Recipe book needs manners.” 

Cindy felt heat rise up her neck. 

Greg looked down at the towel beneath him. 

He said nothing. 

Madison started layering vegetables around the chicken. Krysi dumped in carrots and celery, then leaned over to grab onion from Emma’s board. Emma lightly moved her hand away. 

“Not yet,” Emma said. “These are uneven.” 

Krysi blinked. “They’re onions. They’ll live.” 

“They are not alive anymore.” 

“That’s dark, Emma.” 

“It is accurate.” 

Madison laughed and reached for the olive oil. “Okay, recipe book, how much?” 

Cindy closed her eyes briefly. 

Recipe book. 

Again. 

“Enough to coat, not drown,” Cindy said. “Two to three tablespoons over everything. Toss the vegetables first, then season. Rub the chicken separately.” 

Madison tipped the olive oil too quickly. 

“Stop,” Cindy snapped. 

Madison stopped. 

Ava’s hand lowered slightly, bringing Cindy closer to Madison’s eye level. 

Cindy realized she had snapped at her Guardian in front of the others. 

Madison looked at her. 

Cindy forced herself to speak before Madison could. “That is enough oil, Ms. Wessen. If you add too much, the vegetables will become greasy instead of roasting properly.” 

Madison’s expression eased. “Okay. See? That’s helpful.” 

Cindy hated that the praise still landed somewhere inside her. 

Madison tossed the vegetables with her hands after another grimace, then sprinkled garlic powder across them with much too loose a wrist. 

“Less,” Cindy said quickly. 

Madison slowed. 

“More even. Higher up, but not that high. Move your hand as you sprinkle.” 

Madison adjusted, doing a decent job once instructed. 

Krysi leaned against the counter. “This is actually kind of nice. Like cooking class, but the teacher is tiny and mad.” 

“Exactly,” Ava said. 

Cindy looked toward Ava. “I am not mad.” 

Ava’s eyebrows lifted. 

Cindy looked away. “Not only mad.” 

Emma placed the onions into the pan, then began stripping rosemary from its stems with careful fingers. “How much rosemary, Little Cindy?” 

The title slid between them like silk over a blade. 

Cindy kept her voice steady. “Two sprigs’ worth, Ms. Harrington. Chopped lightly. Do not leave large woody pieces.” 

Emma smiled. “Of course.” 

Madison rubbed seasoning onto the chicken with the intense concentration of someone trying to follow instructions and not look like she needed them. Cindy guided her through salt, pepper, garlic, paprika, thyme, and rosemary. She corrected the amount twice, the distribution three times, and the placement of the chicken once when Madison crowded everything too closely. 

“Space matters,” Cindy said. “If the pan is overcrowded, it steams. You want roasting, not steaming.” 

Madison nodded. “Roasting, not steaming.” 

Krysi repeated it in a dramatic voice. “Roasting, not steaming.” 

Ava smiled. “Write that down.” 

Greg shifted on the towel. “She’s right. Crowding the pan really does make a difference.” 

Everyone looked at him. 

Greg seemed briefly encouraged. 

Then Madison smiled. “Aw, Dad knows cooking stuff too.” 

The encouragement flattened into something smaller. 

“I cooked before,” Greg said. 

“I know,” Madison said. “You made breakfast-for-dinner.” 

“That counts.” 

“It does,” Madison said, still smiling, already turning back to the pan. “But Mom’s the recipe book.” 

Greg looked toward Cindy, and for a moment their eyes met across the counter. 

Cindy hated the look on his face. 

Not pity exactly. 

Recognition. 

He understood what had just happened. His contribution, however true, had become cute because it came from him. Hers had become useful because Madison had assigned her that function. Neither of them had actually been heard the way they would have been before. 

Madison slid the pan toward the oven. 

“Preheat to four hundred,” Cindy said. 

Madison paused. “Should’ve said that earlier, recipe book.” 

Cindy’s mouth tightened. “The oven should have been preheating before the chicken was prepared, yes.” 

“Mom.” 

Cindy lowered her eyes. “Yes, Ms. Wessen. I should have said that earlier.” 

Krysi laughed under her breath. 

Madison set the oven to four hundred and leaned against the counter while it began heating. “How long?” 

“Twenty-five to thirty minutes depending on thickness. Check internal temperature. It needs to reach one hundred sixty-five.” 

“Food safety Dad and recipe book Mom,” Ava said. “Power couple.” 

Greg gave a small, reluctant snort. 

Cindy did not. 

Ava glanced down at her. “That was a little funny.” 

“It was not inaccurate, Ms. Cruz,” Cindy said. 

Ava smiled. “I’ll take it.” 

While they waited for the oven to heat, Madison wiped the counter badly, and Cindy had to direct her through cleaning properly after raw chicken. Wash the cutting boards. Use hot water. Sanitize the counter. Do not use the same towel on clean dishes. Madison groaned but complied, mostly because Emma was watching and Madison did not like looking careless in front of Emma. 

Greg remained on his dish towel, hands folded awkwardly in front of him, trying not to look as helpless as Cindy knew he felt. Madison occasionally glanced over to make sure he had not moved too close to the edge. Each time, Greg stayed exactly where he was. 

When the oven beeped, Madison brightened. “Finally.” 

She opened the oven door, and heat rolled into the kitchen. Ava instinctively stepped back with Cindy, shielding her from the blast with her hand. Cindy noticed the move and despised that she was grateful for it. 

“Good,” Cindy said before she could stop herself. “Never hold a Little near the open oven.” 

Ava looked down. “See? Helpful.” 

Cindy did not respond. 

Madison slid the pan into the oven with both hands, tongue pressed slightly between her teeth in concentration. For one alarming second, the pan tilted. 

“Level,” Cindy barked. 

Madison corrected it immediately. 

The pan settled onto the rack. 

Madison closed the oven door and exhaled dramatically. “Okay. Dinner is cooking.” 

Krysi clapped once. “Chef Madison.” 

“Assistant chef,” Madison said, then looked toward Ava’s hand with a grin. “And recipe book.” 

Cindy stood very still. 

Ava carried her back toward the table as the girls began pulling out plates, drinks, and whatever else they wanted while waiting. The kitchen smelled of rosemary, garlic, oil, and raw heat beginning to transform into something warmer and familiar. It was the kind of smell Cindy had once associated with control. Dinner planned. Food prepared. Family fed. A house functioning because she knew how to make it function. 

Now the same smell rose around her while she sat in Ava Cruz’s hand, used for memory, technique, and instruction. 

Madison had not asked what Cindy wanted to eat. 

No one had. 

Cindy would have pellets later, probably. Maybe Madison would remember before bed. Maybe she would receive some flavored portion in her bowl and be told she had done a good job helping with dinner. 

The humans would eat roasted chicken. 

The recipe book would not. 

Greg seemed to realize it too. From his folded towel on the counter, he looked toward the oven, then toward Cindy, then down at his hands. 

Madison noticed his expression and touched his head lightly with one finger. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll save you a tiny piece if it’s not too seasoned.” 

Greg looked up at her, caught between gratitude and guilt. “Thank you, Ms. Wessen.” 

Cindy looked away. 

The oven hummed. 

The girls talked. 

Ava settled back with Cindy in her lap as if the cooking process had only confirmed the arrangement rather than interrupted it. 

Cindy sat stiffly beneath the smell of the dinner she had guided them through making, understanding with slow, sick clarity that Madison had found another use for her. 

Homework. 

Laundry. 

Cleaning. 

Recipes. 

A living reference. 

A household tool with memories. 

The recipe book. 

And the worst part was that the chicken would probably come out perfectly. 

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