Chapter 3

She walked into the kitchen and saw the pie still sitting on the counter, untouched. She had made it that morning, a perfect apple lattice, the crust golden and flaking. It was meant for dessert tonight, but now the thought of eating it seemed absurd. She covered it with a cloth and put it in the refrigerator.

Her hands moved through the motions of tidying up—wiping the counter, straightening the dish towel, checking the mail. A bill from the electric company. A flyer for a new grocery store. A letter addressed to David from his office. Nothing that required her attention. She set them on the table and leaned against the counter, her eyes fixed on the window.

The robin was still there, perched on the fence, its head cocked as if waiting for her. She watched it for a long moment, and then it flew away, disappearing into the deepening blue of the evening sky.

She heard David's car pull into the driveway before she saw it. The familiar rumble of the engine, the click of the door, the heavy tread of his shoes on the path. She straightened her dress and smoothed her hair, a reflex honed over years of greeting him at the door.

"Smells good in here," he said as he entered, dropping his briefcase by the stairs. He kissed her cheek, a brief, absent peck. "Something for dinner?"

"I made a pie," she said, forcing a smile. "Apple. Your favorite."

"Great." He loosened his tie and headed for the living room. "Long day. The Henderson deal is dragging on. I'm going to change and then we can eat whenever you're ready."

She nodded, but he was already gone, his voice trailing behind him like a ribbon she couldn't catch. She stood in the kitchen, listening to his footsteps on the stairs, and felt a strange, hollow ache in her chest.

Dinner was quiet. She had made a simple roast chicken with vegetables, the kind of meal she could prepare without thinking. David talked about his day, about the office politics and the looming deadline. She nodded in the right places, murmured the appropriate responses, but her mind was elsewhere. She saw Ethan's hands wrapped around the coffee cup, heard his voice saying her name like it was something precious.

"Chris?" David's voice broke through her reverie. "Are you listening?"

"Yes, of course," she said, blinking. "The Henderson deal."

He looked at her, a furrow forming between his brows. "You seem tired. Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm fine," she said quickly. "Just a little tired. I didn't sleep well last night."

He accepted this with a nod, returning to his meal. She watched him eat, saw the way he cut his chicken into neat, precise pieces, the way he chewed with quiet efficiency. He was a good man, steady and reliable. He had given her a home, a family, a life that many would envy. She had no right to feel this restlessness, this ache for something she had lost two decades ago.

After dinner, she cleared the table while David retreated to his study to make phone calls. She washed the dishes by hand, the warm water soothing her, the repetitive motion grounding her. The kitchen window faced the garden, and she could see the last light fading from the sky, the shadows lengthening across the lawn.

The doorbell rang, startling her. She dried her hands on a towel and went to answer it.

Sophia stood on the porch, a paper bag in her arms. Her hair was tucked behind her ears, and she wore a soft cardigan over a simple dress. She smiled when she saw her mother, but her eyes were sharp, searching.

"I brought you something," she said, stepping inside. "I found it at the farmer's market today. Lavender sachets. They reminded me of you."

"Thank you, sweetheart." Chris took the bag and set it on the hall table. "You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to." Sophia followed her into the kitchen, her eyes sweeping the room. "Is everything okay? You look... different."

Chris's heart skipped. "Different how?"

"I don't know. Tired? Or maybe... sad." Sophia's voice was gentle, but her gaze was unwavering. "Mom, is something going on?"

Chris turned to the sink, hiding her face as she reached for a dishcloth. "I'm fine, Sophia. Just a long day."

"You've been saying that a lot lately." Sophia's hand landed on her mother's shoulder, light and warm. "I'm not trying to pry. I just worry about you."

Chris closed her eyes. She could feel the words pressing against her lips, wanting to spill out—the story of Ethan, the coffee, the letters, the photograph. But she couldn't. Not yet. Not to Sophia, who saw too much and would ask questions she wasn't ready to answer.

"I appreciate that," she said, turning to face her daughter. "Truly. But there's nothing to worry about. I'm just a little tired. Maybe I'm getting old."

Sophia smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "You're not old, Mom. You're just... holding something in. And I wish you wouldn't."

Before Chris could respond, her phone buzzed on the counter. She glanced at the screen. Leo.

"It's your brother," she said, grateful for the interruption. She answered the call. "Leo?"

"Hey, Mom." His voice was clipped, professional. "Sorry, I can't talk long. Just wanted to check in. How are things?"

"Things are fine. Your father just got home from work. We had roast chicken."

"Sounds good. Listen, I might not make it for dinner this weekend. I've got a big presentation coming up, and I need to prepare."

"That's fine, sweetheart. We understand." She paused. "Are you okay? You sound stressed."

"I'm fine. Just busy. You know how it is."

She heard the strain in his voice, the same strain she heard every time they spoke. He was carrying something, a weight he didn't want to share. She knew that feeling all too well.

"Take care of yourself, Leo," she said softly. "We miss you."

"I miss you too, Mom. Talk soon." He hung up without waiting for a reply.

She set the phone down and looked at Sophia, who was watching her with knowing eyes.

"He's stressed again," Sophia said. It wasn't a question.

"He's always stressed." Chris sighed. "I wish he would talk to me. Or to someone."

"Maybe he will, in time." Sophia stepped closer and wrapped her arms around her mother, a hug that was warm and firm. "And maybe you should take your own advice."

Chris held her daughter, breathing in the scent of lavender and something floral, and felt a tear prick at the corner of her eye. She blinked it away.

"I love you," Sophia whispered.

"I love you too."

Sophia pulled back, her eyes soft. "I'll let you rest. But I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay."

Chris walked her to the door and watched her drive away, the taillights disappearing around the corner. The night was quiet now, the street empty. She stood on the porch for a long moment, the cool air brushing against her skin.

She went back inside and climbed the stairs to the bedroom. David was already in bed, reading a financial report, his glasses perched on his nose. He looked up when she entered.

"Sophia came by?"

"Yes. She brought lavender sachets."

"That was nice of her." He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "I think I'm going to turn in early. Big meeting tomorrow."

"Goodnight, David."

"Goodnight, Chris." He leaned over and kissed her cheek, a brief, familiar gesture. Then he turned off the lamp on his side, and the room fell into darkness.

She changed into her nightgown and slipped into bed beside him. He was already breathing deeply, drifting toward sleep. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, the shadows dancing in the dim light from the window.

She thought of Ethan, of the way he had touched her hand at the café, the way he had said her name. She thought of the photograph in the box, the two young people who had believed in forever. She thought of the years that had passed, the life she had built, the secret she had carried.

After a while, she got up and walked to the window. The garden was silver under the moonlight, the trees standing sentinel. The robin was gone, but she imagined she could still hear its song, faint and distant, like a memory.

She pressed her forehead against the cool glass and closed her eyes. The world was still and silent, and she was alone with her secret, waiting for the dawn.