Page 178

I did none of it.

Instead…

I turned toward the kitchen. It was dark now. The house had settled into evening.

My hands reached for the fruit before my mind caught up.

Pear.

Apple.

Knife.

Christ.

I didn’t know how to fix this.

But I knew how to feed her.

I sliced, just as I’d done so many times before. Splayed the pieces out on a plate and filled the kettle, placing a teabag in her cup and leaned back.

The casserole sat in the oven. The temperature down low. I grabbed two mitts and pulled it out, sliding it on top. Steam curled into the room, carrying the rich scent of slow-cooked beef. I lifted the lid. Stirred. Then carried it to the dining room.

This.

This is what I could do.

I glanced toward her bedroom.

I think I’ll take a bath instead.

Her words hadn’t carried the usual ache for comfort. No. They carried the edge of pain. Was she in there… letting the warmth work its way into her aching muscles. Or was she doing something else?

I took a step toward her, then stopped.

No.

I don’t force her.

I turned around. My boots hit harder. The heavy thud resounding as I headed back to the kitchen.

I carried the fruit.

Her tea.

My coffee.

Back to the dining room.

Then…

There was nothing left to prepare.

Nothing left to fix.

Nothing left to do…

But wait.