Lena felt it most acutely on Tuesday evenings. That was when Mark, her stepson, came over for dinner. He’d sit across from her at the farmhouse table, methodically cutting his chicken into smaller and smaller pieces, answering her questions with the polite efficiency of a customer service chatbot.
“Let me finish.” She leaned forward, just a little. Just enough to cross an invisible line. “I’m not your mother. I’m not trying to be. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t notice that you look at me differently than you used to. Or that I’ve started looking back.”
Tonight, he’d arrived with rain slicking his hair to his forehead and a new crease between his eyebrows. The storm had knocked out the power, so they ate by candlelight. The lack of electricity felt like an excuse. A permission slip for honesty.
Outside, the rain softened to a drizzle. The power didn’t come back on. And Mark, still holding her hand, leaned across the candlelight and made his choice.
He stared at her for a long, trembling moment. Then he reached across the table—slowly, giving her every chance to pull back—and turned her hand over. His palm was warm. Calloused. Not a boy’s hand at all.
He froze. A forkful of potatoes halfway to his mouth. “Okay.”