She planned everything carefully.
Roasted chicken with herbs. Fresh salads with homemade dressings. Garlic bread baked from scratch. Appetizers arranged with care. Sauces simmered until midnight. And a blueberry crumble that made the house smell like comfort itself.
She slept in short stretches on the couch, waking every hour to check timers or stir a pot. I begged her to rest. She waved me off.
“I’m okay,” she said. And she was. Tired, yes. But proud.
I watched her work and felt something swell in my chest. Not just pride, but admiration. She was doing something generous, something demanding, simply because she wanted to give.
By Saturday afternoon, everything was nearly ready.
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