Then he tugged awkwardly at the pink skirt.
“I figured there was one thing you couldn’t organize your way around.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
“You walking into your father’s funeral dressed like me at 23?”
“Exactly,” he said.
My laughter collapsed into tears.
Daniel knelt beside me.
“I’m sorry I stayed away, Mom.”
“I’m angry you did. But I understand why.”
He nodded.
Then, very quietly, he said, “I knew all Dad’s stories.”
He looked down.
“I knew your passwords. I didn’t know if you still danced, Mom.”
Because I had made it easy.
I remembered birthdays before anyone asked.
Fixed problems before anyone noticed them.
Said “whatever you want” so often that eventually nobody needed to wonder what I wanted.
“Sometimes,” I whispered, “it was easier to do everything myself than find out whether anybody else noticed.”
Daniel took my hand.
“Do you still dance?”
I almost said I hadn’t had time.
Instead, I thought about it.
“I don’t know.”
He didn’t suggest lessons.
Didn’t make a plan.
He just said, “Okay.”
That evening, funeral dishes covered my kitchen.
I reached automatically for them.
Then stopped.
“Leave them,” I whispered to myself.
Daniel stared. “They’ll be disgusting tomorrow.”
“Then tomorrow can complain.”
He laughed.
The pink dress hung over a chair.
A little later, Daniel opened the takeout app.
“What do you want for dinner?”
“Whatever you…”
I stopped.
He waited.
No suggestions.
No rescue.
I looked at him.
“Chinese.”
Daniel grimaced. “I hate Chinese.”
I raised an eyebrow.
He sighed. “Chinese it is.”
For once, the dishes stayed in the sink.
The pink dress stayed where I could see it.
Daniel complained about the egg rolls while I ate exactly what I’d wanted.
