She started laughing in our kitchen. Not the polite, careful kind — the unguarded kind that catches you off guard and fills the room.
I stopped counting chicken slices. I started counting smiles instead.
One evening, after dinner had been cleared and Dan was washing up, Lizie stayed at the counter. She was doing what she often did — pulling her sleeves down to her knuckles, the way she had that first night — but the rest of her posture was different now. Less braced. More settled.
“Something on your mind, sweetheart?” I asked.
She considered it. “I used to be scared to come here,” she said. “Like I was taking something that wasn’t mine.”
“And now?”
“Now it just feels safe.”
Sam was at the counter beside her. “That’s because you haven’t seen Mom on laundry day.”
Dan turned from the sink. “Let’s absolutely not open that subject.”
