When we pull into the driveway, I unbuckle and turn to Quinn before she can get out.
“I need you to get some groceries for me,” I say.
***
By noon I'm in the kitchen. I need something I can make with my hands. Something that turns the invisible work of being in this house into something real and undeniable.
Lasagna is not subtle. Lasagna is labor. It's time. It's heat. It's layers. It's the kind of dinner that saysI planned for you.
I tell myself I'm doing it for Henry. He likes cheesy things. He's a growing boy. It's nice to have a meal that feels normal.
But underneath it all, I want to give Arthur something he can’t outsource.
The afternoon becomes a slow, determined march. I make fresh noodles. I chop onions. I brown beef. I stir sauce until it thickens and the whole kitchen smells like my mother's house, like comfort, like home.
Flour dusts my hands. Heat warms my cheeks. I move around the space as if I belong here.
The door opens, and Henry barrels through it.
“It smells like a restaurant in here,” Henry announces, backpack thumping to the floor.
“Homework,” I say without turning around. “Now.”
He groans, dramatic and long-suffering, but retreats down the hall anyway. “You’re cruel,” he calls. “Cruel and cheesy.”
Staff drift in and out. They offer help. I smile and say no. I don't want help. I want this to be mine.
Henry reappears long enough to steal a shredded-cheese casualty from the counter.
“Go,” I say, pointing with the spoon. “Algebra before carbs.”
He salutes and disappears again.
When the lasagna finally goes into the oven, I set the table. Plates. Napkins. Water glasses. Everything lined up like a promise. I even light a candle and immediately feel ridiculous for it, but I leave it anyway. If I'm going to be brave, I might as well be all the way brave.
Arthur gets home as the timer goes off. I hear the front door. His footsteps. The subtle shift in the air that always happens when he walks in—like the house reorients around him. My pulse jumps before I can stop it. I wipe my hands on a towel and step into the entryway with a smile that's a little too bright.
"I made dinner," I say. "Lasagna."
Arthur pauses. Looks past me toward the kitchen, scent reaching him. His expression softens, just slightly. Appreciation flickers there, real enough to hurt. Then he says, casual, almostapologetic, "I ate already. On the way back from the office." He nods toward the kitchen. "But hey. It smells good."
I keep smiling because that's what you do when you're trying not to be a problem.
But inside, something goes very quiet.
"No problem," I say, voice too bright. "Henry will probably want some later."
Arthur nods, already turning toward his study. "I have a few calls to finish."
And just like that, he's gone. The door to his study closes with a soft, final click.
I stand alone in the hallway, holding a dish towel like a shield. The candle flickers on the table, steady and unnoticed. The house feels suddenly larger than before, the ceilings higher, the walls further apart. Like someone took all the spaces that were starting to feel comfortable and stretched them back into unfamiliarity.
I walk back to the kitchen. Turn off the oven. Cover the lasagna. Put away the extra plates. Blow out the candle.
By the time Henry wanders back into the kitchen, homework finished, I've regrouped.
I've put my phone away. I've washed my face. I've become someone who can ask about his day without making it about me.
