“Yet you keep returning.”
Slowly, something shifted between us.
She started asking me to stay for dinner.
Her cooking was terrible.
Truly catastrophic.
One night she served meatloaf so dry I thought it might absorb moisture directly from my organs.
“This is awful,” I told her honestly.
She pointed a fork at me.
“Then die hungry.”
We started watching game shows together afterward.
She yelled answers at contestants like they could hear her through the television.
Sometimes she told stories about her younger years—working in a bookstore, losing her husband young, learning how loneliness changes shape as you age.
And somehow, I started telling her things too.
Things I never told anyone.
About foster homes.
About learning not to attach too deeply.
