"I buy the exact same apples," I protested.
"Yours taste sad."
"How can apples taste sad?"
"I don't know. They just do. These ones taste happy."
Emma pressed her lips together, clearly suppressing a smile. "Maybe it's all about the presentation."
"The presentation of apples?"
"Everything tastes better when someone else prepares it with care." Her eyes met mine, warm with gentle teasing. "Scientific fact."
The meal was mercifully short. Emma couldn't eat much from her small plate, and my appetite had completely vanished under the weight of my guilt. Afterward, Sarah helped clear the dishes, they were mostly just forks and my empty shame cup.
"Thank you for staying," Emma said as we gathered by the front door. "The company really did help. I wasn't looking forward to a quiet evening alone with my thoughts."
"Thank you for having us," I said. My words felt desperately inadequate. I wanted to apologize again, to promise I'd do better. But I'd already said sorry. It hadn't filled her empty plate.
"Same time Monday morning?" I asked instead, a little disappointed that she had canceled tomorrow’s tutoring session with the kids. "For the pickup?"
"Same time. Thank you, Cole." She paused meaningfully. "For all of it. Really."
I helped Sarah into the truck. As we drove away down her dirt road, I watched Emma in the rearview mirror—a solitary figure on her porch, balanced on crutches, before she turned and hobbled back inside alone.
The silence in the truck as we climbed the mountain was heavy. Sarah, full of salty noodles, was drowsy and quiet. My mind was a roaring, self-critical storm.
I thought about Emma's cabin. Her real kitchen with spices, pots, and a cutting board that actually got used. She knew how to create warmth and nourishment effortlessly.
My cabin had a hot plate, a dented kettle, and a cupboard full of survival rations. I knew how to keep a body alive. I didn't know how to feed a soul.
Good intentions weren't enough. They were the currency of children and fools.
By the time I pulled up to my dark cabin, a decision had solidified into certainty. I wasn't just giving her rides anymore. That was the bare minimum.
Tomorrow was Saturday. I was going to figure out how to actually cook. Not just heat something up. Real food. Real breakfast. The kind Emma could eat without her stomach protesting.
I got Sarah ready for bed, my mind already racing through possibilities. I had eggs somewhere. Flour, maybe. What did people make for breakfast that wasn't from a box or a Styrofoam cup?
"Uncle C?" Sarah's voice was sleepy as I tucked the blanket carefully around her.
"Yeah, kiddo?"
"Ms. Reed’s apples really did look better than yours."
The simple observation twisted something in my chest. "Yeah. They really did."
"Why didn't she eat noodles with us?"
"Her stomach doesn't like them. Some people need different kinds of food."
Sarah considered this with six-year-old seriousness. "That's really sad. Noodles are so yummy."
"They are. But I should have remembered that she needs different things. I should have planned better."
"Are you going to cook real food now?"
The question, so direct and innocent, almost made me laugh. Almost. "Yeah, kiddo. I think I am going to learn."
