“Take care of yourself. And the little one. I love you. Mom.”
I stood there, holding the letter.
Everything felt distant.
“What is it?” Emily asked, walking closer.
I didn’t answer.
I just handed it to her.
She took it casually at first.
Then she kept reading.
Slower.
Her expression changed.
By the time she reached the end, the room felt different.
“I…” she started, but stopped.
She looked at the trash.
Then at me.
“I didn’t know,” she said quietly.
It wasn’t defensive.
It was realization.
I walked over to the trash and opened it.
The smell rose again.
But it didn’t feel the same.
I reached in and started pulling things out.
The vegetables.
The eggs—checking which ones were still intact.
The jar—still whole, somehow.
Emily crouched beside me.
“Wait,” she said softly. “Let me help.”
I didn’t respond.
But I didn’t stop her.
Her hands—once hesitant—now moved carefully, wiping off what she could.
“They can be cleaned,” she murmured.
I nodded.
We worked in silence.
Not just saving food.
But something else.
When we were done, the table held what we had managed to rescue.
Not perfect.
But enough.
Emily picked up the jar of salsa.
“Did she really make this?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“Does our son eat spicy food?”
“Not much.”