She came, she cooked, she left food, she went home.

She had strong opinions about how I loaded the dishwasher and she expressed them.

She was sixty-seven and she had blood pressure that her cardiologist described, in front of me, at an appointment I had driven her to, as “the kind we watch.”

“You’re home early,” she said, without turning around.

“Wendy.”

Something in my voice made her put down the spoon.

I put the receipt on the counter and smoothed it flat with two fingers.