Chapter 27
Her apple pie recipe.
At the bottom, she had written a note.
Never wait for the perfect time to tell someone you love them.
I looked at Marcus.
“Where did you get this?”
“Your mother gave it to me.”
“When?”
“The week before our wedding.”
My eyes filled.
“She gave you her recipe?”
“She told me you believed you couldn’t bake.”
“I can’t bake.”
“You make excellent toast.”
“That is not the same thing.”
He smiled.
“She said you would learn. She also said I should remember that love wasn’t proved by how much a person could endure in silence.”
I read the sentence again.
My mother had known.
Maybe not about Marcus’s future illness. Maybe not about the particular shape our marriage would take.
But she had known something about us.
Something I had forgotten.
I folded the card carefully and placed it in my purse.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Because I wasn’t ready to admit she had been right.”
I slipped my fingers into his.
“Are you ready now?”
He looked at me.
“I’m ready to try.”
It was not a grand promise.
It was better.
It was something we could keep.
That night, Marcus made breakfast for dinner.
The toast was slightly burned.
The eggs were unevenly cooked.
Emily declared the meal perfect.
Afterward, Marcus sat at the table while I made coffee. He flexed his recovering hand, then reached for the sugar bowl.
He lifted it without dropping it.
The movement was small.
Ordinary.
I saw the effort in it, the concentration, the quiet pride.
He set the bowl down
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