The phone rang as I set the table for dinner.
It was a December Tuesday, three days before Christmas. The house smelled of roasted chicken and vanilla candles. Wrapping paper overflowed from a box, and the kids were arguing over which gift was theirs.
I answered without checking the screen. “Hey.”
“I’m leaving now,” Ethan said, tired but warm, that familiar comfort in his voice after a long day. “Just stopping at the store real quick. The kids won’t stop talking about that gift.”
I smiled, pressing the phone to my ear. “They’ll survive until tomorrow.”
He chuckled, the sound I’d missed every day since. “Dinner’s ready?”
“Everything’s hot.”
“I know… smells amazing. You made that chicken I like, didn’t you?”
“The one you always steal extra pieces from.”
We fell silent, the kind of quiet that comes from years of knowing someone completely.
“Be home soon?” I asked.
“I will. Thanks for waiting.”
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