My mother pretends everything is normal

and still hasn’t acknowledged the text I sent her

about waiting up. She moves around the kitchen

making dinner, and I watch her from the doorway

before she notices I’m home. Something about her

looks different, some subtle adjustment to her shoulders.

I examine her for evidence of love, for traces

of a new man who has straightened her spine.

When her eyes catch mine, she smiles.

Hey Turtle, I’m glad to see you, she says, and points

at all the dishes that need doing.

She hasn’t called me Turtle

for what feels like a lifetime.

Have you asked David? I ask, already

pushing up my sleeves.

He’s not here, she says.

Just us.