Sunday lunch

A quiet week.

A wedding. Three courses I could not face, a table of people who noticed, and a very kind waiter who boxed it up without saying a word.

My mother cooks. That is how she says it. So I eat what I can, slowly, and I say thank you, and we manage. It is not a problem to be solved.

Somebody asked what my secret was and I froze completely. Still working out what I want to say to that.

Steady.