“The good stuff.”

“I’m worried about her,” I confessed. “I almost wish she’d stayed in the hospital. Who’s going to take care of her at home?”

“Your father?”

I gave John a doubtful glance. My father visited wounded and incarcerated soldiers all the time. But Momma was the one who took our temperature and changed our sheets, who brought us ginger ale and soup on a special “sick day” tray. “That’s not really his thing.”

“So, Beth is coming tomorrow,” John said. “And Jo gets in Wednesday. Let your sisters take some responsibility for once.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t care, I reminded myself. But my sisters weren’t the ones who found her writhing on the dirty straw. I was. “They don’t know what to do.”

“They’re college-educated women. They’ll figure it out. Your mother’s laid up, not in a coma. She can tell them if she needs something.”

Problem solved. Except I didn’t need him to solve my problems. I wanted him to sympathize.

I caught myself. Don’t fuss. No fussing allowed.

“You’re right.” I managed a smile. “You must be starving. I’ll get started on dinner.”

Back when John and I started dating, he’d fixed all his meals from a can. As if he were still nine years old, earnestly heating Dinty Moore stew and chicken noodle soup for himself and his little brother. I’d promised myself that once we got married, my husband would come home to a hot dinner every night. I would cook for him the way Momma cooked for us. The way his own mother, bless her heart, never had the time to do. For the past five years I’d kept that pledge as seriously as our wedding vows. Even when our babies were born (thirty-six hours of labor followed by a C-section, thank you very much), I’d prepared all John’s meals in advance, two whole weeks’ worth of dinners with simple reheating instructions taped to each Tupperware lid. Cooking for John, caring for him in such a basic, intimate way, let him know how much I loved him.

“No rush,” John said. “I fed the kids on the way home.”

I took in my first full view of the kitchen. There were the twins’ winter jackets, heaped by the door. Their muddy shoes, half under a chair. Their dirty school bags, smack on the center of the kitchen table, waiting for me to unpack. And there, on the counter, were . . .

I raised my eyebrows. “Happy Meals?”

“Chicken nuggets and apple slices. With milk.” He shrugged, a little defensively. “They seemed okay with it.”

Of course they were okay with it. It was McDonald’s.

I could hear Elsa in the next room singing “Let It Go.”

“Sounds like fun,” I said lightly. “Let me get something for you, then.”

I opened the freezer and found a steak. John’s favorite. I popped it in the microwave to thaw.

He turned from the fridge, beer in hand. “You want anything?”

Pizza. A hug. A really large glass of wine. But I didn’t know how to say so without sounding selfish. “I’m good, thanks, honey.”