Then one Saturday afternoon, I found a cardboard box on my porch.
Inside was the chipped blue mug I’d left at our parents’ house years earlier and forgotten about.
There was no note.
Just the mug.
I laughed when I saw it.
Not because it was funny.
Because somehow the stupid little thing said more than Kevin probably knew how to say.
He called that night.
“Did you get it?”
“Yes.”
“Mom was cleaning cabinets.”
“Of course she was.”
He hesitated.
“Amber says I owe you an apology.”
“Amber sounds smart.”
He gave a reluctant laugh.
Then his voice turned serious.
“I shouldn’t have assumed I could move in.”
“No.”
“And I shouldn’t have said that about the dinner.”
“No.”
“I was jealous.”
That surprised me enough that I sat down.
Kevin continued before I could answer.
“I know everybody thinks I’m the favorite.”
“You are.”
“Yeah.
Probably.”
I smiled despite myself.
“But sometimes being the one everybody rescues makes you think you can’t do anything without being rescued.”
I hadn’t expected that either.
It didn’t erase anything.
But it was true enough to deserve space.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“Amber and I are staying in her sister’s basement for six months.
I’m paying rent.
Dad offered money.
I said no.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Really?”
“Don’t sound so shocked.”
“I’ll work on it.”
He laughed again.
Then he said, “Your house really nice?”
“You would’ve known if you’d come to dinner.”
“Yeah.”
A pause.
“Maybe someday?” he asked.
Not demanded.
Asked.
That mattered too.
“Maybe someday,” I said.
Three weeks later, I set the dining table again.
Not for five.
For four.
Dad brought rolls.
