Last night was a rare night of quiet and peace. Summer is so busy, always something to do, a place to be, a chore waiting patiently, chewing away at my conscience. But not last night.

I finished work early, got a haircut and a shave, and came home to find Sam in bed, halfway through a true crime documentary she’d gotten hooked on. I snuggled up next to her and she groaned a complaint. I understood. “I know, sweetie,” I said.

She pulled herself out of the tangle of sheets and blankets by 5:30. “I need to make dinner.”

An hour later she’d made homemade chicken strips and beet fries, from the beets she’d grown in her own garden. Beautiful, burgundy red beets. She’d baked them the week before, two hours in the oven, and has been slowly working them into everything since, diced in a salad, slivers over goat cheese and salt, fries in the air fryer. I wait patiently for her homemade meals. A treat, every time. I help when she’ll let me, but mostly she just listens to her playlists and works, her hands cutting, sorting, wiping.

“This is awesome. Thanks, Sam.” I tell her every time. I don’t take it lightly. No way.

Kimi didn’t care for the earthy, complex flavor. “They taste weird,” she said.

Sam just smiled. She didn’t like them either, as a teenager.