Chapter 18 - The First Dinner
Friday night arrived without sirens, without hospital monitors, and without the suffocating shadow of family betrayal.
The kitchen smelled of garlic, roasted rosemary, and fresh bread—scents that had nothing to do with holiday protocol or showing off for town elites. Claire stood at the stove stirring a simple pot of pasta, her movements relaxed, her posture unburdened.
I set the kitchen table with our everyday plates—not the expensive wedding china that had been weaponized against us, but the simple stoneware we had bought together on our very first anniversary.
When Claire brought the bowls to the table, we sat down across from each other. There was no heavy mahogany head-of-the-table seat demanding rigid hierarchy. Just two chairs side-by-side in spirit, facing each other as equals.
Claire raised her glass of sparkling water, looking across the table with eyes bright and clear.
"To coming home," she said softly.
May you like
I clinked my glass against hers, the clear ring echoing warmly through the quiet room. "To home."
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