“I know.”
That was the difference.
Need and choice.
I opened the refrigerator.
Eggs.
Cheddar.
Roasted vegetables from the day before.
Butter.
I made a frittata and toast.
In the back of the refrigerator, I found one small container of cranberry sauce I had accidentally left there.
I placed it on the table.
No comment.
Cassie stood in the kitchen doorway while I cooked.
For several minutes, she said nothing.
Then:
“Stella?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry.”
I kept whisking eggs.
“For what?”
She winced.
“The Ryan thing.”
I looked at her.
She continued.
“I do it.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t think about how often.”
“I did.”
Her face reddened.
“I know.”
She leaned against the doorway.
“Ryan was around when Lucas and I were younger. Mom liked her. She was just part of that period of our lives.”
“That doesn’t explain why you keep bringing her into mine.”
“No.”
Cassie looked down.
“It doesn’t.”
I waited.
“I think it became a habit.”
“That makes sense.”
“Not an excuse.”
“No.”
She looked up.
“I’m sorry.”
I believed her.
Not because the apology was perfect.
Because she looked uncomfortable enough to mean it.
“Thank you.”
She hesitated.
“Do you hate me?”
I almost smiled.
“No.”
“Really?”
“I have been annoyed with you for six years.”
“That sounds worse.”
“It’s not.”
She laughed nervously.
Then:
“The rolls were good.”
I looked away so she would not see me smile.
“I had one before you packed them.”
“Dense?”
“No.”
A pause.
“Maybe structurally confident.”
I laughed.
That was our beginning.
After we ate, the house became quiet again.
Warren rested with his hand elevated.
Cassie went into the kitchen with Todd.
Poppy was searching under the couch for her stuffed giraffe.
Lucas helped.
Linda sat in the chair across from me.
For the first time in six years, she looked uncertain around me.
Not defensive.
Uncertain.
“I don’t know how to start.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
I waited.
She folded her hands in her lap.
“When I was growing up, we didn’t have much.”
I knew some of this.
She continued.
“My mother was embarrassed by everything.”
“Our clothes. The car. The house.”
She looked around her own immaculate living room.
“I think I spent my whole life deciding nobody would ever look at my family and think we weren’t enough.”
Her voice became quieter.
“So I notice things.”
“Yes.”
“Too much.”
“Yes.”
She smiled faintly at the directness.
“I notice food. Clothes. houses. How tables look.”
She swallowed.
“I think sometimes I forget that when you spend all your time making sure the house looks right to people coming in…”
She looked toward the kitchen.
“You can make the people already inside feel inspected.”