Grace
By the last weekend before classes started, we'd both had one of those weeks that left no real room for anything except surviving it—Mason buried in two-a-days, me buried in lesson plans for six-year-olds who couldn't yet tell a forward crossover from a stumble.
So when I came downstairs Saturday evening and found the kitchen actually smelling like something other than my own protein shake, it felt like walking into a different house entirely.
"You cooked an actual meal," I said, climbing onto a stool at the island. "On purpose. With ingredients."
"It's called dinner. People do it sometimes." But he was already sliding a plate toward me, and the effort behind it gave him away completely—seared chicken thighs with the skin crisped dark, a grain salad bright with something citrusy,
