By Amy Moschkau It was routine. Mom burned the pancakes, and Dad never made it home for supper last night. Or breakfast this morning. My fingernails weren’t clean enough, and Victor was crying because he spilled his juice. I stood on a stool at the kitchen sink with a pink bar of soap, the color that reminded me of sidewalk chalk so much that I could taste the powder in my mouth. Victor cried louder, and Mom had tears running down her face before she blotted the artificial cranberry flavoring out of the carpet. The phone rang. If there was anything in the world I hated more than their fighting, it was their fights over the phone. There was something about only hearing one…