He returned to the tomato, half of which was already cut and stacked in a neat, if uneven, pile. He finished the remaining half, then started on an avocado. Glancing at the clock, he wondered when Caddie was coming home. Already past six, he’d expected her some time ago.

He checked the table. Two places were set, the plates flanked by napkins and silverware. He’d even picked up some flowers on the way home, thinking that the big pink and orange gerbera daisies would liven up the dining room. Now, looking at them standing in an empty coffee can—the only thing he could find in the house that resembled a vase—he worried that they were silly.

A timer went off, and he returned to the kitchen. Beside the big pot of water, a smaller pot held spaghetti sauce. It had come from a jar, but he didn’t think Caddie would mind. At least he hoped not. He thought, a little unkindly, that Carol had never been a particularly good cook when they were together. He hoped she hadn’t improved much over the years. He wanted Caddie to see that, if not chef-worthy, his food was at least as good as her mother’s.

He opened the door and checked the garlic bread. He’d found the recipe online and followed it exactly. He was pleased to see that it appeared to have worked successfully. He turned the oven down to warm and shut the door. Pausing, he went over the list of dinner items: pasta with sauce, garlic bread, salad. Everything was done except the pasta. Opening the box of spaghetti, he dumped it into the boiling water. All that was missing was Caddie.

It’s going to be fine, he reassured himself as he waited, not certain if he meant the pasta or dinner with his daughter. He was surprisingly nervous. Dinner out would have been easier. But he was pleased that he had elected to cook. Stressful as it was he’d managed it, he thought, quite well.

He read the back of the spaghetti box for at least the fifth time since purchasing it. Six minutes, it said. He looked at his watch. How long had it been? He hadn’t noted the time the pasta had gone into its bath. He grew anxious, afraid that he might now overcook it, and poked at the strands in the pot with a wood spoon. Several of them seemed to be stuck to the bottom, which further upset him. I should have bought a backup box, he thought darkly.

He thought he heard a door shut, and looked up. But nobody came into the kitchen, and when he called out “Caddie?” in a hopeful voice, there was no response. Across the street the neighbor children were singing some nonsensical song as they jumped rope. He heard the slapping of the rope against the sidewalk.