“It probably is.”
She laughed softly.
For a moment, the room felt smaller, warmer.
We sat holding hands until the wine was untouched and the afternoon light had faded.
Neither of us rushed to turn that moment into something it wasn’t.
But when I left, she walked me to the door and kissed my cheek.
It was a small gesture.
I felt it all the way home.
Maya returned a day earlier than expected.
I was in Diane’s kitchen on Monday morning, making coffee. Diane sat on a stool near the window, wearing a robe and reading the newspaper.
Maya walked in, stopped, and stared at the two cups on the counter.
One was mine.
One was her mother’s.
“Oh,” she said.
Diane lowered the newspaper.
“Good morning.”
Maya looked at me.
Then she looked at her mother.
Then she smiled slowly.
“I knew it.”
“You knew what?” Diane asked.
