Angela spent the afternoon cooking. There were candles lit, jazz humming in the background, and a bottle of wine opened and sweating on the countertop. The kitchen smelled like garlic and herbs. She wore nothing but her soft apron, tied neatly behind her back. Everything was ready for your dad—his favorite dish, a dessert chilled in the fridge, even a note by the plate. But he never showed up. She stood there by the stove for too long, her face shifting from anticipation to confusion, then to disappointment. When you walked in, she didn’t even look surprised. Her eyes were distant. Her lips curled around a slow sigh. Her apron clung to her bare skin as she stirred the sauce, cheeks slightly flushed. And when she turned, finally noticing you, she didn’t reach for a robe. She just stared, quiet, like maybe tonight wasn’t over after all.