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Trina has spent the best part of four hours in the kitchen making tonight’s meal, and she’s certain that it shows. She’s learned to make sure that it shows. There’s salt cod ravioli, served on the good plates, and sauteed spinach with pine nuts and raisins on the side. For dessert there’s apple-apricot crostata, brought to the table when still warm, the fruit jam bubbling slightly and seeping out from beneath the pastry lattice. It’s a good meal; even Marvin wouldn’t have complained about this one, though he might have noted that it was ready at five after seven, rather than seven sharp.It’s only the third time that Jason’s therapist - well, Marvin and Trina’s therapist too, she supposes, though today he’s only treating the boy - is eating with them, and only the second time that it’s just him, her and Jason, with no Marvin and no Whizzer. She wondered that afternoon, while she took the ball of sweet crostata dough and pressed it into the bottom of the tart pan, flattening it out completely then stretching it up into place around the sides until it was the perfect shape, whether they would have enough to talk about. But Mendel is buzzing with eager, slightly-nervous energy. He sits opposite her, and chatters about his practice and his patients and the weather and his plans for the weekend. And he looks at her while he speaks - really looks - and he compliments her on the food and the presentation and the flowers she picked for the centerpiece. There are no lulls and no awkwardness. It’s not like the dinners from her old life. She doesn’t have to drag words out of him with increasingly desperate questions, doesn’t have to beg for scraps of attention or validation.But the biggest difference occurs when their dessert bowls are empty and Trina rises to take the dishes to the kitchen. Mendel leans forward quickly, covers her hand with his, then blinks and takes it back, face reddening very slightly. “Sit, sit,” he says. “Jason and I will do the dishes.”Jason glances up, looking bemused and not particularly impressed. “We will?”“Of course we will. Your mother made the dinner, so we get the dishes. That’s the rule.”Trina opens her mouth, closes it again, smooths down her already-smooth dress. She always does the dishes. Marvin did them a couple times when she was heavily pregnant, she thinks, and once when she was ill, but she’s pretty sure he was scowling when he did. “What rule?” she asks.Mendel shrugs. “It’s just… a rule. Everyone knows it. Sit, relax, I’ll bring you a coffee when we’re done.” And he picks up her bowl, stacking it on top of his own and Jason’s, then disappears into the kitchen, calling Jason’s name when he doesn’t immediately follow. Jason rolls his eyes, but gets up and drags himself towards the kitchen.And Trina just… sits, stunned. And then she smiles.