Ten years together, even if it wasn't a good marriage—as she's told me—leave a mark. And I'm here, trying to find my place in the middle of all that.
She continues moving around the kitchen with that calm efficiency she has when she's focused. She opens the fridge, checks containers, heats things up. I watched her silently from the doorway. I feel out of place, like a guest in a scene that doesn't quite belong to me.
“I think Ryan's going to like this,” she says as she puts a container in the thermal bag.
“And what about me? What are you going to make for me?” I try to joke, but her gaze softens, and I know she's noticed.
“I don't really know your preferences yet. Well, not completely. Is what I'm preparing okay for you?” she says sincerely, without guilt, just as a fact.
I nod.
“I'l
