in a bowl of tomato soup. In a child standing safely at the stove. In the moment your body realizes the person across from you wants you full, not gone.
That night, after dishes, after homework, after he went to bed, you stood alone in the kitchen with the overhead light low and your hand on the counter.
Once, this had been the room where death was plated and served with a smile.
Now it was only a kitchen.
Yours.
And for the first time in a very long while, that was enough.
