Ethel nodded. "Go rest for a bit, then. Let me finish the last two dishes and dinner will be ready."
She turned and headed back into the kitchen.
I watched her bustle around, her back to me, and the question slipped out before I could stop it.
"Why'd you park your car sideways across my spot today?"
Ethel glanced back at me, looking a little sheepish.
"Oh, I was worried you'd come home hungry, so I rushed up to cook for you. Didn't bother parking properly—just pulled in sideways and ran upstairs."
Ethel's demeanor was perfectly natural.
Not a single word out of place.
After all, every day when I came home from work, a hot meal was waiting for me on the table.
Ethel was a surgical doctor. Her workload was enormous, yet no matter how busy she got, she always found time to come home and cook for me.
Sometimes I told her to take a break, to stop pushing herself so hard. But she always said the same thing:
"Your health isn't great. You get shaky and lightheaded the moment you skip a meal. I'm not taking any chances."
"I need to make sure there's a hot, fresh meal waiting for you the second you walk through that door. Nothing in the world is more important than that."
She went back to the stove.