I didn’t bake elaborate birthday cakes.
I didn’t attend every class trip.
Our vacations were usually day trips to state parks where parking was free.
But I made her prom dress.
I drove thirty miles when she forgot an important project at home.
I attended graduations and school concerts, sometimes arriving in a work uniform with my name stitched above the pocket.
I had always believed those things counted.
Lately, I wasn’t certain Lauren agreed.
At six twenty that evening, she stood in my kitchen moving unopened mail into a neat stack.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said.
“It was crooked.”
“It was mail.”
She straightened it again.
I filled the kettle.