Kitchen

The key had been warming my pocket since the night before. I knew she’d be awake, waiting for me, with her robe open and the coffee pot on the heat.

I’d been watching her for years when no one was looking. That night, with the house empty and a bottle of wine between us, I stopped pretending I was only her daughter’s husband.

She’d been alone in that lost village for almost a year. Then two younger friends invited her over for wine, pizza, and confessions that changed everything.

Lorena opened the suitcase to help put away the clothes and found the toys. Her new cook was watching from the doorway, not a shred of shame on her face.

Three glasses of wine, warm water, and a nineteen-year-old redhead who still didn’t know that night would make her more than just the house cook.

We’d spent months inventing excuses not to be alone. That early morning, the excuses ran out, and the kitchen stopped being just a kitchen.