My MIL stopped waiting for me to leave. She’d show up while I was folding laundry upstairs and “take care of the fridge” before I noticed. I’d come down to find her rinsing out containers at the sink, humming softly.
“What are you doing?”
“Cleaning, honey.
This chicken looked a little gray.”
“I made it two hours ago.”
She’d smile. “Better safe than sorry when children are involved.”
I started labeling everything. Big letters.
With dates.
“FOR DINNER TONIGHT.”
She threw it out anyway.
***
One Thursday, I prepared beef stew in the crockpot. Eight hours on low. The smell filled the house when Noah and I walked in after his piano lesson.
I went to set the table and froze.
The trash can told the story.
