She laughed, and I mimicked the sound slightly, but it fell flat. I kept my expression neutral and simply sipped my wine.
Tiffany went on, sharing more details about late-night calls when Troy was sick and weekends at the park where Miro taught him to throw a ball, painting a picture of closeness that stirred an unexpected twinge in my chest.
It wasn’t quite jealousy but a quiet protectiveness over the space he’d carved out for Lucia and me.
The oven pinged, and gosh was I grateful that it did.
“Oh!” she exclaimed excitedly. “The chicken’s ready.”
She jumped up and rushed to the kitchen, and I rested my wine class down and stood too.
“Kids! The food is ready!” I called, figuring that I’d help Tiffany with the rest.
She was a strange woman, but I still wanted to help.
Lunch passed w
