We both knew what that meant.
The kitchen was the same as it had been twenty years ago—same laminate counters with the burn mark from when I'd set down a hot pan wrong, and same mismatched chairs around the table.
Mom carefully filled the kettle, set it on the stove, and turned the burner to high. Her movements were automatic—the ritual of tea-making, a domestic routine that could hold off collapse for another ten minutes.
"Orange pekoe or chamomile?" she asked, opening the cupboard.
"Orange is fine."
She pulled out two mugs—the ones with faded cartoon bears we'd had since I was in elementary school—and set them on thecounter. Dropped a tea bag in each. The kettle started its slow climb toward boiling.
I sat at the table and waited.
Mom wiped down the already-clean counter, rearranged the salt and pepper shakers, and adjusted the dish towel hanging from the oven handle. When the kettle finally whistled, she poured water into both mugs.
She brought the mugs to the table, set one before me, and sat across from me. Steam rose between us, fogging the bottom half of her glasses.
We both watched our tea steep.
"You should add milk before you forget," she said.
"I drink it black now."
"Since when?"
"A few years."
"Oh." She added milk to hers—two splashes, no more—and stirred. The spoon clinked against ceramic. "I didn't know that."
She took a sip, set the mug down, picked up the spoon, and stirred again.
"I saw theChroniclephoto," she said, not looking at me. "New Year's Eve. You and your—" She stopped. "Your friend."
There it was.
I pulled the tea bag out of my mug and set it on the spoon rest she'd put between us. "His name's Hog. He's my boyfriend."
Mom's spoon stopped moving. She set it down carefully, precisely aligned with the edge of her placemat.
"Okay," she said.
That was it. Okay.
She removed her glasses and wiped the steam off with the corner of her cardigan. Put them back on and looked at me directly for the first time since I'd sat down.
"He looks kind," she said, and her voice was softer. "In the photo. He was smiling."
"He is kind." I wrapped my hands around the mug, the heat seeping into my palms. "He's also loud and complicated and takes up more space than any person should physically be able to take up. But yeah. He's kind."
"That's good." She sipped her tea. "Kind matters more than people think."
We sat with that for a moment. Outside, someone's dog barked twice and went quiet.
"Your father—" Mom paused. "He would have—" She stopped again, staring into her mug. "I don't know what he would have thought."
"I don't either."
"Does that bother you?"
