The final bites of mango pudding were consumed in a quiet that was no longer hostile but fragile. The air still hummed with the aftershock of Evan’s floral grenade, but Derek’s words had built a small, sturdy shelter within it. My mother rose to clear the plates, and Derek was on his feet before I could move.
“Please, let me help,” he said, already stacking bowls with an efficient clatter. My mother began to protest, but he shook his head with a gentle smile. “You cooked a masterpiece. The least I can do is handle the aftermath.”
She relented with a soft sigh that sounded more like relief, and I saw her shoot my father a look that spoke volumes. I joined them, carrying the teacups to the sink. For a few minutes, the only sounds were the rush of water, the clink of china, and my mother’s
