I kept the sensitive details where they belonged.

Her relatives had filled those silences with stories that pleased them.

I went inside and made fresh eggs.

Clara tried to apologize for the spoiled breakfast.

I handed her the mug and told her to sit down.

That evening, she settled into the floral armchair beneath the floor lamp.

Wooden knitting needles clicked softly.

Yellow wool draped across her knees, nearly a blanket now rather than a collection of separate rows.