Elizabeth shrugged, grabbing a glass of water. “You already have too much going on. The eulogy, the calls from his work… figured I could handle this.”
The new dynamic was strange, almost peaceful. Evenings stopped feeling like a battle. They’d sit on the couch with mugs of tea, reading sympathy cards aloud—funny ones from Albert’s college friends, sweet ones from neighbors—and laugh or cry, whichever came first. When Gwen struggled to draft an email to the insurance company, her hands shaking too hard to type, Elizabeth took the laptop and banged out a message that was polite but firm, exactly what Albert would have written. “He always said you catch more flies with honey, but sometimes you need a little vinegar,” she said, handing it back. Gwen clicked send without editing.
That night, they ate frozen pizza in front of the television, watching an old movie Albert had loved—Casablanca—and the silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable, like two people who’d known each other for years.
On the fourth day, Gwen woke with a migraine. It was sharp, throbbing, behind her eyes, and her stomach churned. She’d been crying herself to sleep every night, and exhaustion had finally caught up. She shuffled to the kitchen, her eyes squinted against the light, and leaned against the counter.
Elizabeth was already there, making toast. She turned, saw Gwen’s face, and stopped. “You look terrible,” she said, but there was no bite to it—just concern. “Migraine?”
Gwen nodded, her voice a whisper. “Haven’t had one in years.”
“Sit down.” Elizabeth pointed to a chair, then started rummaging in the medicine cabinet. She came back with a pill—ibuprofen, the kind Gwen could take, not the aspirin she was allergic to—and a mug of tea, the temperature just right. She set a plate of toast in front of Gwen, the crusts cut off, just the way Albert used to make it. “Eat something first,” she said gently. “Dad always said taking pills on an empty stomach is bad.”
Gwen ate slowly, the toast soft and buttery, and washed it down with tea. When she took the pill, her hands were trembling. “Thank you,” she said, her voice thick. She didn’t know how to process this—Elizabeth, who’d once called her “a waste of space,” now taking care of her like she mattered.