The marinara sauce had been simmering for 3 hours. I stirred it one more time, checked my phone again. Still no text from Devo, and I wiped down the counter for the fourth time that evening.
My son was driving up from San Francisco and I hadn’t seen him in a year.
The pasta water rolled into a boil just as my phone buzzed. Parking now.
Smells amazing from the street. I grinned, turned down the heat, and went to unlock the door.
Devo came through first, carrying a bottle of wine that probably cost more than my weekly grocery budget.
He wrapped me in a hug that lifted my feet off the ground. “68 and still cooking for my kids,” I said when he sat me down. “Best chef in Portland,” he said, then spotted the old playbills stacked on my shelf.
“You kept all those?”
“Thirty-five years of theater doesn’t just disappear.”
Velma arrived 15 minutes later with Cornelius trailing behind.
She kissed my cheek, handed me store-bought cookies, and complimented the apartment in that tone people use when they’re trying too hard. Cornelius shook my hand without making eye contact and asked where the bathroom was.
We settled around my small kitchen table. I’d pulled in a folding chair so all four of us could fit.
The pasta came out perfect.
Devo launched into stories about his AI startup, something about machine learning and Series B funding that went over my head. Velma nodded along, playing the supportive sister, asking all the right questions. “Seventy-hour weeks,” Devo said, twirling linguine on his fork.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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