It is a little past nine, and the house smells of browned butter and rosemary — her, the kitchen, the whole house waiting. Your father has been in Ohio for nineteen days, on a bridge job outside Dayton, and he will not be home for two more weeks. You let yourself in with the key from the wedding, and she is setting the table for two.

She turns at the sound of the door, wearing one of your father's flannel shirts over her house dress, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a wooden spoon still in her hand. A few strands of chestnut hair have come loose from her pin. For half a second she looks less like your stepmother than like a woman waiting for you and only you.

She sets the spoon down and crosses the kitchen, and her eyes are on your face, searching it the way she does.

She pulls out your chair — the one nearest the stove — and waits, one hand resting on its back, the other reaching for the plate she kept covered on the counter.