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Something about the way she says it catches my attention.

She says it lightly. Like it’s nothing. But her fingers tighten around her fork, just for a second, and her eyes go somewhere I can’t follow. I know about her grandparents. I read everything the service provided. Her background check. Her employment history, or lack of one. Her references.

I know she spent most of her adult life caring for the people who raised her. I know her grandfather died two years ago, her grandmother four months ago. I know she sold their house before coming here.

Facts.

That’s what they were.

Information in a file.

Now she’s sitting across from me, serving my son lasagna made from her dead grandmother’s recipe.

It feels different.

Four months. Four months ago, she was standing in some kitchen in a house that doesn’t belong to her anymore, cooking this for a woman who is no longer on this Earth. And tonight, she made it for us.

“Did she teach you to cook?” I ask.

“Mostly. Grandpa could cook too, but only three things.”

“What things?” Shiloh asks.

Noelle points her fork at him.

“Pancakes, grilled cheese, and chili.”

“I like pancakes,” he says.

“I know you do.”

“With chocolate chips.”

“I know.”

“And whipped cream on special occasions.”

“Tomorrow is special,” Shiloh announces.

Noelle’s lips twitch. “Why?”

“Daddy’s home.”

My fork stops halfway to my mouth. He doesn’t say it like it’s important. He says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s a fact as simple as snow falling outside the window. Daddy’s home, therefore special occasion pancakes.

Noelle looks at me. Her expression softens. “That’s a pretty good reason.”

Something presses against the center of my chest.

I glance at my son. He’s eating like he didn’t just knock the fucking wind out of me. Sauce on his chin. A noodle hanging off his fork. Swinging his feet.

“Chocolate chip pancakes tomorrow,” Noelle says.

“Yes!”

“With fruit,” she adds.

His excitement dims. “Why?”