I took a shower, long and hot, I washed my hair twice and used up all my soap. I needed to go shopping soon anyway. I was almost out of floss.

I walked into the kitchen and there was dinner: a green salad, macaroni and cheese, and baked potatoes with all kinds of stuff to put on them. I looked at the table, at my plate with the potato still wrapped in foil to keep it hot, and I sat down and cried.

“Muiriel.” Francine came rushing from the sink where she was filling a water pitcher with ice and lemon slices. “What’s the matter?” She pulled her chair close to mine and sat beside me, her hand on my back. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and tried to breathe. I took a sip of water.

“I love baked potatoes,” I said. “I love macaroni. I love salad in my macaroni because it’s a nice crunch in there.”

“Well, sure,” she said. “Especially if it’s a nice firm romaine with no E. coli.”

That made me cry more. She understood. Lettuce in pasta is nice.

She full-on put her arms around me. “Are you not feeling well? Is school okay? Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

In that moment, more than any other I could remember, I wished I could. None of it would matter soon anyway, no reason to risk screwing everything up so close to the end. But still, I wished.

This dinner, though. It was the next-best thing. Like she knew I needed comforting. I dried my eyes again.

“It was a really long day,” I said. True. “But this dinner is turning the whole thing around. Thank you. So much.”

She put her hand, cool and soft, on my cheek. “Sweetheart, of course. It’s just dinner. You’re welcome.” She moved her chair back to her place and put her napkin on her lap. “Now, give Terry Johnson a little bite of a noodle. He’s worried about you.”

There he was, brow furrowed, peering up at me from beneath my chair. He took the bite delicately from my fingers and ran back to the sofa.

Dinner was, as I suspected, delicious.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I meant to ask you how was your day?”

She smiled and passed me more sour cream for my potato. “It was very productive, thank you.”

—

We washed and dried the dishes, and then without asking this time, I followed her to the sofa, where she handed me a bag of Newman’s Own chocolate chip cookies, part of the blanket, and the remote.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“You’ve got the plinger.”

I laughed. “The what?”

“The thing. The clicker.”

I scrolled and searched and finally found the perfect, happy, neutral thing.