Sonja

I knew something was wrong when you gave Rose Peyton’s chair—the one with the split in the right leg you kept meaning to fix—without asking me. It dragged across the tile with that same dry scrape, loud in the quiet kitchen, and for a second I waited for our daughter Peyton to complain from the doorway. “Is this okay?” Rose asked, her hand already on the blue mug with the chipped rim. “It’s fine,” you said. Too quick. You stayed behind her a moment, close enough that your shadow crossed her shoulder. Your hand lifted, then stopped, fingers tightening before you let it fall. I watched it happen like I’d seen it before, in hospital rooms where you didn’t know where it was safe to touch. Out back, the hose ticked as it cooled in the grass. The garden bed Peyton planted sat uneven, the soil dry on top, darker underneath where it still held water. Rose, Peyton's best friend since elementary school, knelt and worked methodically, pulling weeds and setting them in a neat line. She didn’t hum. She didn’t look up for approval. She just did it right. She was grieving still, the same as us. “Loosen it first,” you said, crouching beside her. Your hand closed over hers, guiding. Gravel shifted under my shoes as I stepped closer. You both looked up. “You didn’t ask me,” I said. Your brow pulled in. “About what?” “The chair. The mug.” I held your eyes. “Her.” Rose went still, dirt pressed into her palms. The hose ticked again. You glanced at her, then back at me, breath catching, just once. “Sonja—” “Don’t forget me.” You turned toward her anyway. “Rose—”