Page 78 of I’m Already Gone

He pushes the glass toward me and winks. “Good.”

“I didn’t know you could cook anything but spaghetti,” I say, grabbing my glass and taking a long sip of the cold water, letting it soothe my throat and other places.

He smirks, a familiar glint in his eye. “YouTube is great.”

I laugh, a genuine, bubbling sound that surprises me.

“It’s nice to hear you laugh, Lily,” he says, and something tightens in my chest. It’s too much, too soon.

“So, how was your day?” I ask, trying to steer us back to neutral ground.

Getting the hint, he opens the fridge and puts the pitcher back. “Really good.” He shuts the door and walks over to the stove, picking up the frying pan. “I fixed the dishwasher, mowed the lawn, trimmed the bushes in the backyard, and fixed the lock on the fence.”

“Wow. Thank you. I appreciate that,” I say, the words carrying more gratitude than he knows. I used to mow the grass and trim the bushes myself when the kids and I moved into this house after the divorce. It was my way of reminding myself that I didn’t need a man to help do things around the yard; I was more than capable. But now that I’m sick, the thought of those tasks feels overwhelming. It’s nice to have someone else take care of them.

“Have you thought about doing something with that open space behind your garden?” he asks, taking the stir-fry from the pan and scooping it into a serving dish.

“Yes,” I respond. So many things, so many plans, but they were put aside after the cancer diagnosis.

“Care to share?” He smirks, setting the covered dish in the middle of the table.

I blink several times, pulling myself back to the present. “Sorry. I spaced out.” I take another drink of my water, gathering my thoughts.

Licking my lips, a dreamy smile forming, I respond, “A garden of roses and lilies with a little bench. And maybe a water fountain.”

“You’ve always wanted that,” he says with a soft smile. Still, it tips into a solemn expression, as if he’s remembering our old conversations.

“Yeah,” I say quietly.

Feet bound down the stairs, snapping us back to reality. Ethan clears his throat and resumes putting the rest of the dishes, including the cucumber salad, onto the table.

Maddy pulls up the chair beside me, while Jake helps Ollie into his seat.

Jake leans over and places a kiss on my cheek. “Hi, Mom,” he says, reaching for a roll.

Ethan takes a seat at the end of the table, his gaze sweeping over all of us. He swallows hard and grabs the stir-fry, scooping a small amount onto Ollie’s plate, then proceeds until we are all served.

“This is so good,” I mumble against my spoon, my eyes closing briefly with appreciation. The chicken is juicy and tender, bursting with flavor. Not to mention the vegetables are cooked perfectly. Even the warm roll, slathered with melting butter, tastes divine on my tongue.

“Glad you like it.”

“Mom, no offense to your cooking,” Maddy says, her mouth full, “but I think Dad should cook every night.”

Jake drops his fork, the metal clattering loudly against his plate, and wipes his mouth roughly with a napkin. “Why are we pretending like we’re one perfect family?” he snaps.

“Jake,” I admonish quietly, reaching for his arm.

He turns to me, his eyes filled with a raw, almost painful sadness, then his gaze hardens as he turns to Ethan. “Admit it. You’re only doing this because you feel guilty.”

“Jake, don’t,” Ethan warns.

“Don’t what? Tell the truth?” Jake challenges.

I sigh in frustration. “Jake, please. Not here.”

I glance at Maddy, who is staring blankly at her plate. Ollie looks between everyone with wide, confused eyes.

“Mom, I love you,” Jake starts, his voice softening slightly, “but it’s not right.”