“Well, check the seal,” he said, taking his lunchbox from the counter. “By the way, I saw the calendar on the fridge. Fifty is a heavy number, Elena. You might want to skip the bakery cake this year.”
He laughed, that quick, barking sound he used when he wanted to say something sharp without being called unkind. I smoothed my hands down my apron and smiled back because it was easier than explaining that fifty did not feel like a joke.
He set his lunchbox down again, his fingers tapping the metal lid twice.
“We do not need to make a big production out of it,” he said, his eyes scanning the counter for his keys. “At our age, quiet is better.”
The landline on the wall rang twice before I reached it, the cord stretching tight across the breadboard.
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