She put it on her own plate.
Then she passed the basket to Michael.
At home that evening, he helped carry her flowers into the kitchen. Dinner had lasted for hours, but there had been no speeches, no demand that happiness erase anything.
He set the vase on the table and reached for his coat.
Helen opened the cupboard.
“Stay a little longer.”
He turned.
She took down two plates and unwrapped the loaf Daniel had sent home with her.
Outside, rain began softly against the yellow-curtained window. Michael filled the kettle while Helen cut the bread.
When she sat down, he moved the butter closer.
“Enough?” he asked.
She looked at her full plate, at his waiting face, at the warm light lying across her own kitchen table.
“Yes,” she said, and reached for another slice.
