Denise behind her whispered, “That name is never leaving.”
Claire was there too, along with a teenage boy Lauren later learned was Ethan’s nephew.
Dinner was simple.
Roast chicken.
Mashed potatoes.
Green beans.
Warm rolls.
Nothing fancy.
Which was somehow the kindest choice possible.
Nobody treated Lauren and Denise like a rescue project.
Nobody made the conversation about tragedy.
Maddie showed Denise her room and her stuffed rabbit and the new night-light shaped like a moon.
Claire talked to Lauren about insurance paperwork and local clinics.
The nephew complained about algebra in the universal language of sixteen-year-olds.
At one point Lauren found herself standing at the kitchen sink, rinsing plates while Ethan dried them.
Not because she had to.
Because it felt normal.
A thing adults did after dinner in houses where they had begun to feel safe.
“You look different,” he said quietly.
Lauren glanced at him.
“Different how?”
