When Lilia bombed her math midterm—a D-minus that made her eyes sting with shame—she didn't hide the test. She left it on the kitchen table, face down.
She stared at the letter in the kitchen, the same kitchen where he'd taught her to crack eggs and to cry without shame. "I can't go," she said. "Who'll cut your toast into moons?"
"No," he said, wiping a smudge of graphite from her nose. "You found a method that didn't work. That's data, not disgrace."
Inside were letters. Seventeen of them, one for every birthday, but each labeled with a future date: College Graduation. First Heartbreak. Wedding Day. Day You Become a Mother.
"But mostly caffeine," she'd mumble, and he'd laugh—a warm, rumbling sound that shook the dust motes in the sunbeams.
