At restaurants, when he asked where I wanted to sit, I stopped answering:
“Wherever.”
Sometimes I honestly didn’t care.
Sometimes I wanted a booth.
Turns out both answers were allowed.
The following October, Rosemary started the family Christmas group chat.
Usually she sent assignments.
This year she shared a picture of the bedrooms.
Then:
Before I arrange anything, tell me where everyone actually wants to sleep.
Kara immediately requested the green room with new pillows.
Miles wanted the blue room.
Grandma June still needed downstairs.
Lucas looked at me.
“You pick.”
I typed:
Lucas and I will take his old room together.
Rosemary replied:
Done.
Then another message appeared.
Breakfast helpers?
Nobody answered for approximately thirty seconds.
I laughed.
Then Miles volunteered for bacon.
Kara picked fruit.
Ben said coffee.
I wrote:
I’ll make cinnamon rolls with Rosemary.
Rosemary replied with a heart.
That was enough.
When we arrived that Christmas, our bedroom door had one wreath.
Two names.
Inside were two towels.
Two water bottles.
Two sets of slippers.
I stood there longer than necessary.
Lucas noticed.
“You okay?”
“Yep.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
This time, I meant it.
The next morning, I woke at seven-forty.
I could hear cupboards opening downstairs.
For years, that sound would have pulled me instantly out of bed.
Someone needed help.
Something needed doing.
Instead I stayed beneath the quilt for another three minutes.
Then I smelled coffee.
That was different.
I went downstairs.
Rosemary was at the counter rolling dough.
She looked up.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
She nodded toward the coffee maker.
“Help yourself.”
I poured a cup.
Then she asked:
“Do you want to help with these, or are you only here for coffee?”
I took a sip.
“Coffee first.”
“Fair.”
She continued rolling the dough.
Nobody seemed disappointed.
Three minutes later, I washed my hands and joined her.
Because I wanted to.
