going to find fault with the temperature of anything. There was no table set for people who had always believed her labor was simply what she owed them for the privilege of being allowed in.
Her phone buzzed once on the counter. A message from Mrs. Parker.
Proud of you.
Claire looked at her son, who had successfully captured one of his own fists and was regarding it with deep personal satisfaction. She looked at the small, imperfect, entirely hers kitchen around her. She looked at the bedroom doorway, where the suitcase sat on the closet shelf now, finally put away, the cracked handle turned toward the wall.
The rain picked up slightly against the window. The bread was almost ready. Her son made a sound that was not quite a word but was moving toward one, practicing the shape of something he did not yet have language for.
Claire
