"Food's done!" Carolina interrupts, her voice bright, pulling the tension in the room down a notch. She sets two steaming bowls on the counter in front of us. The smell hits me immediately, rich, savory, comforting. It's the kind of food that looks like it could heal something broken inside you. I don't think I've ever seen soup look so inviting.
* * *
I spend most of the week holed up at Mateo's place. By now, it feels less like I'm visiting and more like I've accidentally moved in. I eat dinner there nearly every night, and Carolina insists on piling my plate like she's trying to fatten me up for winter. Honestly, it's working, I swear I've gained a few pounds, but in the healthy way, the way that comes from eating real food instead of expired ice cream and instant noodles. For the first time in years, I don't look quite so hollow.
And now, somehow, it's Saturday morning. The morning of my father's funeral.
