"How do they stay warm in winter?" Emma asked, leaning forward with interest. "You mentioned the clustering behavior before, but I've been curious about the details."
"They vibrate constantly. The whole cluster shivers together to generate heat through muscle movement. The queen stays protected in the very center where it's warmest."
"Like a bee sweater," Sarah said thoughtfully, nodding to herself.
"Exactly like a bee sweater."
For a span of time I couldn't measure while sitting at that checkered tablecloth, passing warm cornbread back and forth, listening to Sarah's bright laughter mixing with Emma's, this started feeling like something I'd never dared to imagine for myself. It felt like… family. The kind Rebecca had always dreamed about for us. The kind I'd believed was forever beyond reach for someone like me, with my rough edges and emotional limitations.
After dinner, Sarah helped clear the plates with solemn self-importance, carrying each dish to the sink with exaggerated care. I stood to help, but Emma waved me back down firmly.
"You've done more than enough already. Sit and relax."
"I'm not good at sitting and relaxing."
"You don’t say." She stacked the empty bowls efficiently by the sink, then glanced back at me. "Fair warning, if you need to use the bathroom, the hallway shelf is crooked. Don't bump into it or everything falls off dramatically."
"How long has it been crooked?"
"Since I moved in, honestly." She shrugged casually. "I've adapted my walking patterns around it. Same with the spare room door, it sticks terribly when it rains. I've perfected the shoulder-shove technique over time."
"Emma." I stared at her incredulously. "Those are both ten-minute fixes."
"Are they really?"
"The shelf is probably just a loose bracket that's pulled away from the wall. The door needs its bottom edge planed down slightly."
She laughed softly, shaking her head. "You say that like it's completely obvious."
"It is obvious to me. Basic home repair, I’m used to it."
"Well, to me, they're just 'things I've learned to live with and work around.'"
The words hit me harder than she'd intended. She'd learned to live with broken things. Adapted her entire life around them. Because there was no one to notice and fix them for her.
I looked at this woman who'd created warmth and comfort and a home that felt like a sanctuary, and I recognized clearly what she'd been missing. Not just a handyman, but the steady reliability of someone who noticed when things weren't right and quietly made them right again.
And I thought about what Sarah and I had been missing all this time. The softness. The intentional care. The tender steadiness of a woman who transformed a house into a home simply by existing in it.
"I'll come back tomorrow," I said firmly. "With proper shims and a hand plane. Fix the door right."
"Cole, you really don't have to?—"
"I want to."
Our eyes held across the kitchen. Something significant and unspoken passed between us.
"Okay," she said quietly. "I'd really like that."
Too soon, it was time to go. Sarah was fighting yawns, her energy completely spent from the excitement of a real dinner. We gathered by the front door, the comfortable ease of the meal giving way to sudden thick awkwardness.
"Thank you so much," Emma said softly. "For staying. For the company. It gets really quiet here by myself."
"Thank you for dinner. The chili was..." I searched uselessly for adequate words. "Really good."
"High praise from a man who deeply appreciates efficiency."
"Extremely efficient chili. Very practical meal preparation."
