I stayed long enough to see the folder on the shelf, the pot by the window, and the appointment card on the refrigerator become part of a kitchen rather than things somebody had to stare at every minute.

The investigation remained open.

The restrictions remained in force.

Her mother still had lost hours to manage and a week that sometimes required more help than she had wanted to ask for.

None of those things needed to be declared finished for dinner to happen.

Mia tapped the edge of her plate with one finger.

“Three slices.”

“Three is a lot,” her mother said.

“I am six.”

Her mother looked toward me.

“Apparently that settles it.”

I moved the bread drawer a little farther open.

She took three slices and put the first in the toaster.

Mia set the crooked-handle blue cup beside her plate while her mother turned the kitchen light on.