“Sure, okay.” He forks bite after bite of sodden pancake into his mouth. He chews. Swallows. Doesn’t meet my eyes.

“Yeah?”

Warily, Eli looks at me. “I said sure.”

“Great. Good. We’ll pack a lunch. Go around one, one thirty?”

A shrug. He pushes the plate away from him with a sigh and wipes his mouth with a cloth napkin. He looks at me again, this time with a smile.

“That was great, Mom. Thanks.”

It’s nothing close to the way it was when he was younger, but it’s better than it’s been lately. The pinch in my heart is of relief and gratitude. I love this kid more than anything in this world. More than I will ever love anything. He makes it worth giving up the chance to love anything else.

“I’ll get that,” I say when he stands up with his plate in his hand.

Eli pauses, forehead wrinkling. Clearing your own place at the table has always been our rule. Ken’s rule, really. Manners are very important to him. He never washes a dish, of course, but he clears his own place.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“You want any help with the dishes?”

“I’ll do them.” I cast an eye toward the mess in the sink. “It’s therapeutic.”

He grins and laughs at our family’s inside joke. I want to grab him for a hug, but I don’t push my luck. My cuddly little boy grew into a standoffish child and an even more distant teen. You can’t teach your child body autonomy and also insist on hugs.

“Okay. Thanks. I’ll go get ready.” Eli ducks out of the kitchen.

I listen for a heavy, thumping tread upon the stairs, the sort teenage boys are supposed to make, but Eli always moves quietly. I make quick work of the kitchen, and the joke about it being therapeutic is really more like truth. Loading the dishwasher, spraying and wiping the table and counters, filling the sink with hot water for the skillet, it’s all mindless work that turns chaos into cleanliness. I hum under my breath as I finish up and run the garbage disposal to clear out the scraps of pancake and whatever else got washed down the drain.

When I flick the switch, the disposal grinds, but water rises quickly to the top of the drain hole. It smells gross. Not like sewage, exactly, but still nasty. I turn off the disposal and watch the sink slowly empty. I run hot water from the faucet, adding some dish detergent, and try again. Cleaning the drains with baking soda and vinegar is on my list of monthly chores, but although I make prominent check marks on the list in case Ken looks at it, I haven’t bothered to do this task in a while. Another waft of stink tickles my nostrils while I grimace, but this time, the water goes down as it should. I run it for a bit longer, the water as hot as it will get. This house is a year older than I am. We both need more maintenance than we used to.