And honestly, I liked doing it.
It felt sweet in a small married-life kind of way. The kind of tenderness nobody posted about because it was not dramatic enough.
I liked cutting fruit into a little container. I liked writing his name on the lid in black marker so he would not lose it in the office fridge. I liked imagining him opening it at noon and thinking of me.
One morning, I made chicken with roasted potatoes and green beans. I had stayed up a little later the night before seasoning the chicken because Jeremy had mentioned, almost shyly, that he missed the way his mother used to make it.
So I called his mom, asked for her recipe, and stood in our kitchen taking notes while she explained that the secret was paprika and patience.
By the next morning, the house smelled warm and savory. Jeremy came downstairs in a pale blue dress shirt, already glancing at his phone.
