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.
