We ate roast chicken from mismatched plates. A bowl of tomatoes sat between us, and the window was open to the soft noise of somebody walking a dog downstairs.
My mother reached for the bread and tipped her water.
We all watched it spread across the new wood.
Then my father handed her a towel.
“It’s a table,” he said. “We’re supposed to use it.”
She laughed.
I helped her wipe it up, and we passed the bread.
Later, after they left, I washed the dishes and set three clean glasses upside down beside the sink.
The spare key hung near my door.
Tomorrow there would be work, groceries, ordinary things I no longer had to perform as proof that I belonged.
I switched off the kitchen light.
Behind me, the table waited for breakfast.
