Prompt courtesy of Cake.shortandsweet’s Wednesday Write-In.
His supper was waiting for him when he got home. Sure, the house smelled like a campfire, and another burnt potholder soaked in the sink, but dinner was on the table. He loosened his tie, let his eyes drift around the kitchen, thought about shaking his head, caught himself, and gave her an exhausted smiled.
She was all dolled up and pleased as a peach, standing at the stove with an old apron tied twice around her waist.
“Smells great,” he said, pulling his tie free. “What are we having?”
She insisted he sit. He did. She hummed a tune that tickled the edges of his memory as she turned her back and filled the plate. She seemed about to burst as she set it down in front of him. He gripped his knife and fork and looked down at the leanest steak ever sliced from a blown tire and poked at the potatoes, his fork barely piercing the skin. He looked up.
“How’d I do, daddy?”
“Just great, sweetheart,” he said, sawing at the meat and smiling. “Just like mom used to.”