Chapter 5 - TuesdayI heard it open. A woman's voice. "Marcus!"
His tone brightened instantly. "Aunt Irene! Look at you."
"I know. Ancient. Move," she said. "This thing is heavy."
Footsteps approached the kitchen, slow and careful. Whoever it was, they were carrying something substantial. Priscilla stood rigid beside the table.
Marcus entered first. Behind him was a woman I'd never met — seventies, silver hair loosely pulled back, carrying an old rectangular casserole dish in both hands. Scratched exterior, one handle repaired with dark tape, and across the lid a strip of yellowed masking tape with writing I couldn't read from my seat.
The woman saw Priscilla. Her expression softened. "Well, hello."
Priscilla said nothing. Her gaze went to the dish, then Marcus, then back to the dish.
"Marcus," she whispered.
Irene stepped farther in. Priscilla's face turned crimson. "What is SHE doing here?"
Marcus set a potholder on the table, perfectly calm. "You said a good wife cooks dinner herself." He took the casserole dish from Irene and placed it between us. "I thought Delphine should meet the woman who cooked for us."
Priscilla shot to her feet. "How could you do this to your own mother?"
Marcus reached toward the yellowed strip beneath the dish. I leaned closer. Two words, still clearly visible in faded black marker.
May you like
PRISCILLA — TUESDAY
Whatever version of motherhood Priscilla had spent years presenting to us, I suddenly knew that casserole dish was about to tell another story.
Related Stories
