Arthur laughed into his napkin, and Evelyn told him to hush.

Once the plates were stacked, Evelyn asked me to help with the coffee.

Fiona trailed after us with her mug and her phone tucked under one arm.

The kitchen smelled of garlic and the lemon soap my mother used on her hands.

A manila folder lay next to the bread box, squared to the edge of the counter.

“I made your coffee the way you like it,” Fiona said.

She put the cup in front of me and glanced at her screen.