After lunch, while Daniel was cleaning up, she and I sat in the living room. Not quite comfortable, not quite awkward. The in-between of two people who have been through something together and are finding the new equilibrium.
She said: “I know I made it hard.”
I said: “Some of it was hard, yes.”
“I’m used to being — I’ve always been the person who runs the house.” She looked at her hands. “When Carl died I was in my own place. I had my own house to run. Coming here, I think I just fell into it.”
I said: “I know. And some of it was genuinely helpful.”
She looked up, slightly surprised.
“The soup,” I said. “The soup was really good.”
A small exhale that might have been a laugh. “The soup I can make.”
“You can make a lot of things,” I said. “That was never the issue.”
She nodded. She was processing something, turning it over. “I should have asked before I moved the spices.”
“Yes,” I said. “That would have been better.”
We sat for another moment.
She said: “I think I need to find some things. A book club, maybe. Daniel says there’s one at the library near the apartment.”
I said that sounded like a good idea. I meant it.
“I don’t want to be the kind of person who –” She paused. “I don’t want to make people feel like I’m taking over.”
I thought about how to answer this honestly.
“I think the awareness helps,” I said. “It’s not about whether you ever help or offer to cook. It’s about whether you ask first.”