A spoonful of puree takes off from the high chair and lands on Nathan's hair and tee-shirt. With a jaded sigh, he replaces the spork correctly in the baby's chubby fist.

I snort and go back to doing the dishes. Dang it. The boeuf bourguignon is dried-up. Yesterday night I forgot to soak the cooker and will need elbow grease to salvage it. Should I use lemon juice? I read that it works wonders on crusty leftovers.

"Mama? Pika dessert."

Repressing a laugh, I crouch to face the yellow plush and negotiate. "Pikachu, dessert comes at the end of the meal. Here. Do you want to put this yoghurt down on the table? This way, you can have it as soon as you're done with the courgette risotto."

"Pika 'ghurt table." Aaron's hand outstretches from behind his cuddly toy. His head hidden by his partner in crime's, he fumbles to grasp the dessert, then trots back to his chair. He hesitates and, after pocketing his bounty, climbs on his booster seat.

My gaze locks with Nathan's. We smirk at our eldest child's ingeniosity. These two months of lockdown and remote working have allowed us to witness his progress in communication skills. At present, he is able to form complex sentences, to express emotions, and to scold his little brother, should the latter do something forbidden. Indeed, once Aaron is settled back on his chair, he notices the bright orange stain on his father's clothing. "No-no! Dirty. Bad Daddy."

Nathan arches a brow and explains, "I didn't cause this mess. Isaac did."

Aaron scowls at the baby and raises an authoritative finger. "Isaac no. Daddy dirty. Sorry Isaac."

All eyes converge on the toddler, who rubs his palms together and signs Excuse me. "Dada?" He cocks his head to the side with a quizzical look.

"Daddy is not angry." Nathan smooches the wrinkled forehead, earning giggles and a relieved, toothless grin.

On the sixty-inch television that occupies most of our tiny living room, the news anchor concludes with the stores that will reopen next week. Among them, bars and restaurants. I roll my eyes at the people's eagerness to run the risk of dying for a Big Mac.

"Urgh." Nathan grabs the remote and lowers the volume at the end of the report.

While I gather courage to face the mountain of dishes, the news switches to an amateur video zooming on a forty-something Black man. A police officer is kneeling over him, and another one is standing in front of the camera, keeping its owner at bay.

"Turn up the volume."

Eyes trained on our toddler and the impressionist painting smeared on the tray, Nathan gropes for the remote. "It's not Covid-related--"

"Ssh." I rinse the dish soap off my hands and lean against the kitchen island with a tea towel.

Interspersed with the handcuffed man's gasping and wheezing, a bystander voice pleads, "He can't breathe!"

I glance at my children, worried that the scene might upset or scare them, but they are busy gulping down lunch under their father's defeated stare.

The onlooker goes on, "When my homie died..." The rest of the sentence is unintelligible, and my eyes dart to the lower part of the screen.

Demonstrations and protests in USA following George Floyd's death

Crap.

"--about to die the same." On the ground, George Floyd moans.

A burning hand twists my insides. Those are the last living moments of a dying man.

"Relax," an officer says.

"I can't breathe. My face..." George's sentence trails off with a groan. "Just get up."

"What are you on?" The policeman's voice is controlled. Distant. Unfazed.

"I can't breathe. Your knee on my neck. Shit." A long, guttural scream escapes George's lips. "Mama! Mama!"

With a stifled sob, I dive behind the kitchen island.

George Floyd, a grown man, is so terrified he's calling his mother.

My side against the cupboards, I let down quiet tears. They stream down my numb cheeks, leaving lukewarm wetness in their wake.

On the other side of my shelter, protesters chant, "Justice for George! Justice for George!"

The reporter's voice mentions riots and damaged stores. She lists the slogans tagged on cardboards and banners.

Stop killing us

Enough is enough

How many more?

Black lives matter

I remove my glasses to wipe the tears away and gently blow my nose in the damp tea towel.

"You okay?" Nathan's voice is filled with concern when I get up.

"I can't wrap my mind around this. How can this happen nowadays?"

"The lockdown restrictions depend on each state. Perhaps Minnesota has no curfew and--"

"Not the rioting. Racism. How can racism still exist?" As I utter it, my question rings naive and childish.

Nathan remains silent. He's white, male, privileged, and he's aware of it.

I go on, "I'm Asian. For me, racism takes the form of unwelcome Konnichiwa when I walk down the street, and Where are you from? when I met someone. It's annoying, but that's about it. My skin color has never induced fear or distrust."

The news anchor bids us a good day, and Nathan switches off the television. The kids whine. Aaron begs for the PJ Masks, and Isaac for anything starring knights and horses.

I stride to them and, with plane noises, shove a spoonful of risotto in the eldest's mouth. From the shelves behind him, I take a castle-shaped cloth book for his little brother to play with while their father cleans up the tray.

When I step back, the perfection of this homey scene slaps me in the face. I am lucky. No. I am blessed.

In my head, Mama! echoes. The burning hand crawls up my spine and crushes my mother heart. Molten lava seeps from my rib cage to my guts, scalding my soul in the process.

George is gone, and his country is on fire. The whole population, not only colored people, is tired of the unfair treatment of African Americans.

Part of the mental exhaustion might be related to the unprecedented sanitary crisis. I recall the alarming demographics on Covid deaths: In the US, a quarter of the reported victims are Black.

As it often does these days, my mind drifts to the pandemia. Next week will mark the beginning of a new era in France. As long as social distancing is respected and cough etiquette is applied, the citizens' life will return to normal. They'll enjoy coffee on sunny terraces and lay down in verdurous parks, dreaming of the summer vacations and, more generally, about the future.

But what kind of future will they be dreaming of? What will the world look like if we shrug off yet another unjust death? What tomorrow will I leave for my children if I do not voice my outrage?

"George Floyd died because he was Black. Without the stigma associated with his skin color, he would have lived."

"What are you gonna do about it?" Nathan's body is tense. He knows there's a social justice activist within, for we've had our share of heated debate over the years.

Angst fills me. What can I do to fix the situation, or at least nudge it towards equality? I hold no power, no influence. I am anyone. I am no one.

A satisfied chuckle draws my attention back to the cloth book. Isaac is smudging knights with vegetables. Using his spork, he spreads the puree on their armors, careful to go to the tip of their blades.

The pen is mightier than the sword.

Hope blossoms in my chest and dispels the dread away. I lean to drop a kiss on Nathan's head, avoiding the mashed pumpkin on his unkempt hair.

"I'll write."