In return, she fed me.
Sometimes Maya joined us for dinner. She was twenty-four, quick-witted, and entirely capable of making fun of both her mother and me.
One evening, she watched me dry dishes while Diane washed them.
“You know,” Maya said, “Mom hasn’t let anyone touch that back door since Dad died.”
Diane looked over her shoulder.
“That’s not true.”
“Really? Who fixed it?”
“Your uncle repaired the latch last year.”
“The latch, yes. The door itself? No.”
Maya grinned at me.
“You’re special, Ethan.”
I nearly dropped a plate.
Diane gave her daughter a warning look.
“Maya.”
“What? I’m observing.”
“Observe quietly.”
Maya burst out laughing.
I laughed, too.
And that was when I realized I had started looking forward to dinner at Diane’s more than anything else in my week.
Not because I expected something to happen.
Because nothing had to happen.
I could sit at the table, listen to Maya tell stories about difficult customers at the café, and watch Diane laugh until her eyes watered.
