She doesn’t sayso you trust me.
She just sets the paperwork down and leaves it there.
Like a mechanic showing you the parts they replaced.
I nod.
“Good,” I say.
And we move on.
No parade.
No medal.
Just… good.
Some weekends she drives up.
Not every weekend.
She asks first.
Always asks.
“Is it okay if I come up Saturday?”
Like she’s booking a dentist appointment.
Like I might say no.
Sometimes I do.
Sometimes I don’t.
When she’s here, it’s weirdly normal.
Suspiciously normal.
She cooks.
Not fancy shit.
Real food.
Tomato sauce bubbling on the stove. Garlic popping in oil. The house smelling like something alive.
She wears my old flannel like it belongs to her.
Sleeves too long. Hair messy.
We bump hips in the kitchen.
Argue about whether the pasta’s done.
Laugh at dumb things.
The kind of laughing that sneaks up on you and makes your stomach hurt.
