Clara stood in front of the refrigerator longer than she realized, her hand resting on the handle as she stared at a bowl of eggs sitting neatly on the middle shelf. They looked almost too perfect. Clean. Identical. Lined up with a kind of quiet discipline that made her uneasy.
Growing up, food had always come with rules. Leftovers were inspected. Dates were checked twice. Anything that wasn’t made that same day felt questionable. In her childhood home, being careful meant eating fresh. Standing in her mother-in-law Ruth’s kitchen, Clara felt like she’d stepped into a different way of thinking, one no one had ever explained to her out loud.
Later that afternoon, she found Ruth in the garden, trimming basil. The air smelled sharp and green, and Ruth hummed as she worked, completely unbothered by time. The sun hit her shoulders gently, as if it had found its place there. Clara watched her for a moment, feeling oddly nervous. Asking about the eggs suddenly felt bigger than it should have, like admitting she didn’t know something basic.