Mark carried my bag up the three flights of stairs, ignoring my protests. He walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and frowned.
“I’m going to get groceries,” he said.
“You don’t have to do that, Mark. You just had surgery, too.”
“I can’t lift more than five pounds, but I can certainly push a cart. It’s a medical fact, Jessica, not an opinion. You need to eat.”
He returned forty minutes later with bags of vegetables, chicken, and fruit. I watched from the sofa as he moved through my kitchen with a quiet, practiced efficiency. He didn’t ask where the pots were; he found them. He didn’t ask for instructions; he made a chicken broth that filled the apartment with a warm, living aroma.
I sat there, watching him stir the pot, and realized a tear was sliding down my cheek. Not for Evan. Not for the divorce. But because a man I barely knew was making me soup.
