She’d been around a lot since Mom died. Helping out. Bringing food. Keeping things running. I assumed Dad just didn’t want to eat alone.
When I arrived, the house smelled like lemon cleaner and roasted chicken. Lena opened the door, smiling, wearing my mother’s apron.
Inside, everything was spotless. Too spotless. The pillows were aligned. Magazines fanned neatly on the table. It felt like Mom had just finished cleaning—which was strange, because Dad had never cared about that kind of thing.
Dinner was polite. Quiet. But I kept noticing details.
Lena refilled Dad’s water before he asked. Passed the salt before he reached for it. She seemed to anticipate him.
Then Dad set down his fork.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said. “Lena and I are engaged.”
The words didn’t connect.
“Oh,” was all I managed.
Lena took his hand. “This wasn’t sudden. We’ve been leaning on each other for a long time.”
Dad nodded. “She’s been living here for months.”
Months.
I hadn’t known.
