There were small things I noticed. Things I didn’t think about until much later.
The first time he made tea for me, he didn’t ask how I took it. He brought me chamomile with one spoonful of honey and a splash of milk.
That was exactly how I drank it. Almost nobody makes chamomile with milk.
“How did you know?” I asked.
He looked down at his cup. “Lucky guess. It’s how my mom used to make it.”
Another time, while I was washing dishes, I caught him humming “You Are My Sunshine.” Not the usual way—slower, with a little pause before you’ll never know, dear.
I stopped with a plate in my hands.
I’d hummed that song exactly that way my whole life. I had no idea where I learned it. One of my caseworkers once told me it might have been a memory of my mother.
