I sat on the vinyl stool next to her bed, holding a plastic bowl of chicken broth and a plastic spoon.

“One more spoonful,” I said, lifting it to her lips.

She sipped the broth slowly and swallowed with a small nod before laying her head back against the white pillow.

“You’re hopeless at feeding people,” she whispered, a little wink flickering in her eye.

“Susan must have done all the cooking.”

“She did,” I said softly.

“I just did the dishes.”

“Well, husband,” Margaret said, letting the word settle between us in the quiet room, “you’ve got a new job now.”