He served Carol first, which was courtesy for honored guests.
She studied the plate like she was wondering if we’d just served her roasted fizzling.
I expected her to comment on portion sizes or question us about nutritional content or whether this meal aligned with current dietary recommendations.
Instead, she took a bite. Her eyes widened.
“This is excellent,” she said after she’d swallowed. “What’s in the spice blend?”
Traig looked up from his meal, his expression wary. “Ground vesh seed. Dried trilladon leaf. Salt from the deep mines along the Cassarian Sea.”
“The balance is remarkable.” She took another bite. “The meat is cooked perfectly. How long did you braise it?”
“Six hours on low heat.”
“That explains the texture.” She set down her spoon. “This is a skillful preparation, Traig. Thank you for sharing it.”
Drogar’s spoon stopped halfway to his mouth. He looked back and forth between Carol and Traig.
“Is this a claiming attempt?” he asked. “Are you trying to claim Traig through food praise?”
Carol’s mouth twitched. “I’m simply acknowledging good cooking skill when I see it.”
Traig stared at her like she’d announced she was moving to the kingdom. Krem made a note on his clipboard. I caught her surprised expression before she could hide it with her napkin.
We finished our meal in silence, but the quality of the silence had changed from stilted to relaxed.
Late-afternoon, Carol announced she needed to go to town to handle some things. She sent Laina a look holding a touch of longing.
Laina murmured something but didn’t offer to accompany her.
After Carol’s car disappeared down the road, I considered asking Laina what Carol was looking for or whether the space between mother and daughter could be crossed or if it had grown too wide.
I decided against it. This was between them, and my interference would only complicate an already delicate situation.
But the urge to fix it sat heavy in my chest.
After everyone had gone home for the day, I locked up and walked to my cottage, finding the lights on inside. Laina sat at the kitchen table with food waiting on the stove.
“I made dinner,” she said as I shut and locked the door. “I hope that’s alright.”
The tightness in my chest eased. “It’s more than alright.”
We ate together, the conversation light and careful. Afterward, we moved to the living area, both of us with books we weren’t really reading. Finally, I put my marker back insidemy book and closed it, setting it carefully on the table beside my chair.
“Back where I come from,” I said, “when family members create distance between themselves, we have a specific word for it. Tavresh-mora. The space that must be walked.”
Laina closed her book and placed her clasped hands on the cover.
“That sounds very formal,” she said.
“It is, because the distance is acknowledged as real. Not pretended away or ignored. When someone has tavresh-mora with family, the expectation isn’t that they’ll cross the distance in one grand gesture. The expectation is that they’ll take small steps toward each other, repeatedly, until the space has been walked by both of them.”
“Small steps,” she said. “Walking in the other person’s shoes.”
“Yes. They seek a meal shared without judgment. A question asked with genuine interest rather than criticism. A moment where both parties exist in the same space without needing to fix what’s broken between them.”
Laina set her book down on the cushion beside her. Sofia lifted her head, considered relocating, and decided the cushion she’d curled up on was warmer than either of us. “My mother doesn’t do small steps. She wants—” Her fingers drummed on her thigh. “I don’t actually know what she wants. I thought I did, but every time I think I’ve figured it out, she surprises me.”
