Empty Kitchen

Scott threw the door open and kicked off his shoes, barreled into the kitchen with a holler of, “Mom!”

He drew up short when the kitchen was empty. The triplets crashed into his back, and there was a cacophony of yelps and protests.

“I got dinner, boys,” Kevin said.

All four of them turned and stared at their father, at the bags of take-out he was trying to juggle. Scott swallowed hard and turned back to the empty kitchen. As one, the four brothers burst into the kitchen and tore through the cupboards, the drawers, but everything was finally gone - Mom’s favorite pans, the glass bowls she’d gotten from Grandma, her best knives.

The boys had been forced to wait outside of the courtroom while their father and mother finished talking to the judge, and they’d listened to their mother say she’d get the rest of her things, be “out of their hair” by tonight, but they hadn’t expected her to be quite so gone.

Kevin set the bags of food down on the kitchen table. “Scotty, get some plates.”

The boys stared at each other. Kevin huffed, impatient.

“Scotty, Clay, I said plates.”

Dan shook his head. “Níl ocras.” And he turned and headed for the stairs. His brothers followed.

When Kevin went to check on them hours later, they were all crammed onto Scott’s bed, curled around each other like a pile of puppies, faces wet from crying.

Kevin had heard the first night was the worst.

(250 words - Irish is "not hungry", or an approximation thereof)