She was the mother of our children— She should’ve been by their urns, keeping vigil through their seventh day.
But in Henry’s eyes, a flicker of irritation flashed. His gaze shifted and suddenly he grabbed the bowl from Irene’s hands and walked toward me.
“Mr. Carter, you have to try this seafood porridge Miss Wells made. Last time we went to the beach together, I told her it tasted amazing—and she said she’d learn to make it for me. I just had some and it tastes exactly like the one we had that day.”
Irene glanced at me, flustered.
She always said her hands were meant to save lives—not for chores or cooking. She never touched any of it.
But starting last month, she began stepping into the kitchen after work.
The place was a mess every time.
That was when the children were gravely ill and I was already exhausted, hanging by a thread.
I had thought she was doing it for me— that she felt sorry watching me worn out, that she wanted to shoulder just a little of my burden.
While I quietly cleaned up her kitchen disasters, I felt both bitter and touched, secretly hoping she might cook again—for me, for our children.
It turned out, she was just trying to recreate Henry’s seafood porridge.