The morning after my last chemo session, I woke up on the couch because the bed still felt too far away.
Gerald was in the kitchen. I hadn't asked him to come. He just showed up at six with a box of leftover wedding favors from his niece's reception — candied almonds in little tulle bundles, tied with curling ribbon.
He set one on the coffee table next to my ginger ale and said, 'Bitter and sweet. That's what they're supposed to mean.'
He's been my stepfather for eleven years and I still call him Gerald. He's never once corrected me. He just keeps showing up with the wrong thing at the right time.
I couldn't eat the almonds. My mouth was raw. But I held the tulle in my fist like something precious while he made toast I wouldn't touch and stood over the sink eating it himself.
He drove me to the follow-up appointment three days later and didn't park until he found a spot in the shade. He said, 'Your mother would've circled this lot for an hour.'
It was the first time he'd mentioned her since the funeral. I laughed so hard I cried, and then I just cried.
I ate the almonds on the one-year anniversary. They were stale and perfect.