My Husband Locked Our Phones in His Toolbox Before Friday Dinner—Then My Son Collapsed After Three Bites

In every dinner we prepared together.

In every ordinary moment when nothing terrible happened.

Safety returned through repetition.

So did joy.

The last time I visited Maple Street after moving out, the apartment was empty.

Landlord repainting.

The little wooden table already gone.

I stood near the kitchen window.