Maya hugged me tightly.
“Can I come again next month?”
I looked at Owen.
He smiled.
“Of course you can.”
She squealed.
Then she ran back for one more hug before leaving.
After their car disappeared, I went inside.
I locked the front door and walked toward the kitchen.
There was a container of leftover chicken soup in the refrigerator.
I warmed it up and sat at my oak table beside the window.
The evening light settled over my backyard.
I took a spoonful and smiled.
Some leftovers, I realized, were worth keeping.
But not every old habit deserved another chance.
People sometimes ask what happened to that twelve-pound ham.
The one I’d cooked for two days.
The one Christa expected me to serve before quietly eating leftovers in the kitchen.
Well, it was excellent.
That Sunday night, after fastening it into the passenger seat and driving forty minutes home, I sat down and enjoyed two thick slices with scalloped potatoes.
