The apartment greeted me with its familiar quiet, the kind that echoes and makes you feel like you’re taking up less space than you used to. I set my bag down, kicked off my shoes, and headed for the fridge, already debating which flavor of noodles deserved the honor.
When I opened the door, my brain stalled.
The fridge wasn’t just stocked—it was alive. Not with luxury or indulgence, but with care. Containers were stacked neatly, each labeled in my mother’s unmistakable handwriting. Fresh produce. Eggs. Milk. Portions of home-cooked food, wrapped carefully, as if someone had taken their time. I stood there longer than necessary, not because I was hungry, but because something in my chest tightened.
