She gives me that long-suffering squint she uses when I say something dumb but secretly thinks I’m funny.
“You’re beautiful, Mary. Always have been. A little softness never hurt a woman unless she was trying to marry a scale.”
I roll my eyes and set my purse down carefully near the door, like it doesn’t contain evidence that could unravel my entire life.
“I haven’t touched takeout in a week,” I lie, peeling off my shirt. “I’ve been good. I made… uh, quinoa.”
Why is quinoa always the go-to lie food?
“You hate quinoa.”
“I’m growing.”
She snorts. “I’ll believe it when you sprout a kale leaf out of your ears.”
I grin. For a second, it almost feels like things are normal.
She tastes the broth, gives a nod of approval like she’s the only judge onTop Chefthat matters. And then, right on cue—
“Speaking of,” she says, like the universe has it out for me, “when are you bringing him around again?”
I blink. “Who?”
She gives me a look. “Evan, smartass.”
“Oh. Right. He’s… working late.”
She snorts. “He’s always working late. What is he, a doctor?”
“No. Just… busy.” I reach for the sugar tin and pour some into her tea before she can lecture me about how I always overdo it.
“You know,” she says, watching the swirl of sugar dissolve, “I still haven’t laid eyes on that boy. Not once. One day, you oughta bring him around, so I know he’s real and not a hologram from your phone.”
I force a laugh. “He’s real.”
She hums. “Then prove it. Next time, you both come for dinner.”
I nod. Like a coward. Like someone who didn’t just get dumped by text. Like someone who didn’t just maybe stumble into something criminal and terrifying and potentially life-ruining.
“I’ll let him know,” I say.
Lie number one.
She doesn’t push further. Just hums a little as she grabs the dumplings from the fridge and sets them on the counter.
We fall into the rhythm of old routines. I chop carrots while she shuffles to the cabinet for her meds. She refuses to use the pill sorter I got her; insists she can remember what’s what by the color of the caps. She can’t. Half the time, she ends up with her vertigo pills instead of her blood pressure ones.
I watch her closely as she moves. Slower today. Her left hand shakes a little when she turns the cap. I want to reach out. Say something. Ask,“How bad is it, really?”
But I don’t. Instead, I stir the pot.
“How was the morning?” I ask.
She shrugs. “TV, pills, and yelling at the news. Standard.”
“Did the news win?”
“Barely.” She smiles at me. “You’re quiet.”
