That evening, Chloe and I went grocery shopping together.

She walked beside the cart and picked things out, carefully, seriously: milk, apples, cheese, yogurts, a loaf of fresh bread.

And when we got home, we put it all away together, in the quiet of a house that was, at last, only ours.

When we finished, she stood in front of the open refrigerator and looked at every shelf, taking inventory, the way she always did now.

“Will the food still be here tomorrow, Mommy?” she asked, softly.