A Container With Just My Initial

The extra key still works, which is its own kind of miracle at this point. I let myself into my parents' kitchen a little after two, the way I have for months now, only on nights I know for certain she's asleep.

There's always a container waiting. This week it's the chicken and rice, masking tape on the lid, her handwriting, dated Tuesday like she's tracking something. She makes too much on purpose. I know that. I've known that since the first time I found a container with my initial on it instead of a label, back when I still lived here.

I eat standing at the counter, straight from the container, and I wash it before I leave so there's no dish in the sink by morning. I've gotten good at leaving the kitchen exactly the way I found it.

Tonight there's a new container next to it, unlabeled, and a spoon set out beside it on a paper towel, like it's been waiting for me specifically. Not tucked in the back. Set out.

I stand there a long time before I understand what that means. She's not making extra by accident. She knows exactly which nights I come.

I wash my spoon anyway and leave it exactly where I found it, like there's still a version of this where she doesn't know.