Chapter 16: Love in the Details

At the first rooster’s crow, Lila got up.

She rose quietly.

She mixed a piece of dough in a bowl to rise, then took a reusable grocery bag to the west room to pack garlic.

The garlic was from their own garden, fresh from this year’s harvest. Lila picked out the biggest, roundest, most flawless bulbs to pack.

Garlic in the city was expensive—the best kind could cost several dollars a pound. Lila wanted to send plenty with her husband, so he could eat well and share with his coworkers, building goodwill in case he ever got sick.

After carrying the garlic to the kitchen, Lila took a jar of pickled hot peppers from the cupboard.

Dan Harper loved these, and they were her specialty: fresh peppers, picked and washed, split open, mixed with peppercorns, star anise, and salt, kept green and spicy all year round—perfect with rice.

Next, Lila took out two parcels of pastries wrapped in old grocery bags and wax paper, just like her mom used to do: special honey twists and crescent honey cakes she’d bought at the market yesterday. The honey twists were golden and crisp, sprinkled with sesame seeds; the crescent cakes were plump and syrupy, their sweet filling oozing out with each bite, their surface dusted with sugar, like something from a fairy tale.

Dan Harper loved these treats—he couldn’t get them where he worked.

Whatever Dan liked, Lila always remembered.

Once everything was packed into the grocery bag, the dough was ready—soft and smooth, like a woman’s belly.

Time to make pancakes.

Sunlight spilled through the kitchen window, catching the flour in the air. The old radio on the counter played a low tune, the kind of country ballad that tells a whole life in three chords.

Under Lila’s hands, the dough became little balls, then thin, round pancakes, which she placed on the small griddle. A quick flip, and they were done.

These, too, were for Dan to take—pancakes with pickled peppers were his favorite. The peppers were too spicy with bread or rice, but wrapped in pancakes, they were perfect.

People always ignore what they can’t see, even if they know it in their hearts.

As the last pancake came off the griddle, Lila suddenly felt a wave of sadness. Tears welled up, and as she bent to pick up the pancake, a tear dropped onto the hot griddle, making a tiny sizzle and a puff of smoke.

She stared at the wisp of smoke for a long time, lost in thought, until it faded and the griddle was calm again. Then she came to herself, wiped her tears, and hurried to wash the pot and cook.

“My wife was a good woman—every time I left, she would cry in secret.”

“But later, I found out she was just pretending.”

The first sentence, Dan Harper said five years ago.

The second, he said five years later.

When he said the second, Dan Harper lowered his head and wept.

Outside, the morning sun climbed over the maples, turning the dew to gold, but inside the kitchen, grief and memory clung to the walls, silent and unyielding. Dan never did scrub that kitchen wall. Every time the morning light hit it just right, he could almost see Lila’s shadow there—waiting, just out of reach.