Last week, she surprised me.

“I want to go with you,” she said.

I stopped mid-motion, keys in hand. “To the store?”

She nodded, as if convincing herself. “I miss choosing my own apples, Eli. I miss feeling normal.”

We chose a weekday morning, hoping the store would be calm. Lark Market is our family’s store, though we never advertise that connection.

By the time we reached checkout, the effort of being out had begun to weigh on her. She wore her gray sweater and her “public” scarf. I pushed her carefully, each rotation of the wheels deliberate, like we were threading through invisible danger.

“You doing okay?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” she replied, though her tone carried the kind of practiced reassurance that didn’t quite hold.

We had flour, apples, pecans, butter—everything for her pecan pie. For a moment, she slipped back into her old self, teasing lightly.

“Do we still have cinnamon?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Eli, I have enough cinnamon to preserve a body.”

Almost a smile.

But at the register, the strain returned. Her hands trembled along the armrests, jaw tightening visibly.

“You want to pause for a second?” I asked.

“I came this far,” she said. “I’m staying.”

Then the woman arrived.

She looked polished, well-dressed, the kind of person who seemed unaccustomed to carrying anything herself. Her heels clicked sharply, each step precise, impatient. She smirked, like the situation amused her.