CHAPTER TWO
---
The second morning, Lira woke to coffee again.
Same spot on the counter. Same fresh fruit. Same careful handwriting on a small note. She smiled before she could stop herself.
She did not know what to do with her day. The penthouse was spotless. Elena had already called to offer help with anything she needed. There was no classroom to prepare. No students waiting. No father to check on until visiting hours this afternoon.
She felt untethered. Floating.
She opened the refrigerator. It was almost empty. A man who ate standing over the sink did not need groceries. She made a list. She would cook again tonight. Something different. Something that required shopping.
She took the subway to the market in Queens. Not the fancy stores near Vance Tower. The market she knew. The one where the vegetable vendor called her mami and threw in extra peppers for free.
She bought chicken. Rice. Beans. Plantains. Her father's favorite. She would make the meal her mother used to make on Sundays.
The woman at the flower stand recognized her. She asked about Antonio. Lira said he was doing better. She bought yellow tulips. Fresh for her windowsill.
She carried her bags back to the penthouse. The doorman held the door. The elevator attendant pressed the button for her floor. She felt like a visitor in her own life.
She cooked all afternoon. The kitchen filled with smells she remembered from childhood. She set the table. Two plates. Two glasses. She did not know why.
At 7pm, she texted Kael. First time. Short message.
Dinner on the table. Come home when you can.
She waited.
At 9pm, she heard his key. His footsteps paused at the dining room. She watched from the kitchen doorway.
He stood looking at the table. At the two plates. At the food she had covered to keep warm.
He sat down. He lifted the cover. He ate.
She brought him water. He nodded his thanks. He did not speak. He did not need to.
When he finished, he carried his plate to the sink. He washed it. Dried it. Put it away.
He looked at her. She looked at him.
"Thank you," he said.
She nodded.
He went to his study. She went to her room.
---
The third morning, coffee was on the counter.
And a new note.
The chicken was good. - K
She laughed. A real laugh. The first since the wedding.
---
The fourth morning, she found him in the kitchen.
He was standing at the counter, tie loosened, coffee in hand. He looked surprised to see her. As if he had forgotten she lived here too.
"Good morning," she said.
"Good morning."
She opened the refrigerator. More food than before. He had gone shopping. She did not ask when.
"I'm making breakfast," she said. "Eggs. Are you hungry?"
He hesitated. Then he sat down at the counter.
She cooked. He watched. She put a plate in front of him. He ate.
"This is good," he said.
"I know."
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile.
---
The fifth day, Lira visited her father.
Antonio was sitting up when she arrived. His color was better. His breathing less labored. The nurses said the new treatments were working.
He asked about Kael. How was he? Was he kind? Did he make her happy?
She told him Kael was good. She told him Kael visited her father's hospital and listened to his stories. She told him Kael ate her cooking and said thank you and left notes on the counter.
Her father smiled. A real smile. The kind she had not seen in years.
"He loves you," Antonio said.
She did not correct him.
---
That night, she told Kael about her father's question.
"He asked if you love me."
Kael paused. His face was unreadable.
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him you visited. That you listened to his stories. That you ate my cooking."
"That is not an answer."
"I know."
He looked at her for a long moment. Then he looked away.
"Your father is a good man," he said. "I am sorry he is sick."
"He is getting better. The doctors say the treatments are working."
"Good."
Silence. Comfortable now. Not the strained silence of strangers.
"I should visit him again," Kael said. "Would that be appropriate?"
She blinked. "You want to visit my father again?"
"He asked about me. It is polite to return the concern."
It was not politeness. She knew it was not politeness. But she did not say so.
"Tomorrow," she said. "After work."
He nodded.
---
The hospital visit was different this time.
Antonio was stronger. He sat in a chair instead of the bed. He shook Kael's hand with a firm grip.
"Thank you for coming back," Antonio said.
"Thank you for having me."
They talked about engineering. Antonio's eyes lit up when Kael asked about his patents. They talked for an hour. Two hours. Lira sat in the corner and watched.
Her father was happy. Truly happy. He had a son-in-law who listened. Who asked questions. Who treated him with respect.
On the way home, Kael was quiet.
"You made his day," Lira said.
"He made mine."
She looked at him. He was staring out the car window. His jaw was tight.
"My father never talked to me like that," he said. "About work. About anything."
She did not know what to say.
"I did not know fathers did that," he said. "Talked to their children. Listened to them."
She reached across the seat. She touched his hand. Just for a moment.
He did not pull away.
---
That night, she could not sleep.
She thought about his hand under hers. The way his jaw relaxed for just a second. The way he said I did not know fathers did that.
She got up. She walked to the kitchen for water.
He was there. Sitting at the counter. In the dark.
"I could not sleep either," he said.
She sat beside him.
"Tell me about your mother," he said.
"What do you want to know?"
"Anything. Everything."
She told him about her mother's laugh. Loud and bright. About her cooking. The same recipes Lira used now. About the way she danced in the kitchen while waiting for rice to boil.
She told him about the sickness. Fast and cruel. About the last conversation. Her mother telling her to take care of her father. To be brave. To be kind.
She told him about the funeral. How she did not cry. How she held her father's hand instead.
He listened. He did not interrupt. He did not offer comfort.
When she finished, he said, "You were nine years old."
"Yes."
"You should have been allowed to cry."
She looked at him. In the dark, his face
was soft. Vulnerable.
"So should you," she said. "When you found your father. You should have been allowed to cry."
He was silent for a long time.
"Maybe," he said finally. "Maybe I will someday."