Chapter 440: Nothing Needed Fixing
Sacha talked about the people she had met, the employees she now managed, the ridiculous problems that somehow became emergencies at five minutes before closing, and the strange talent some people possessed for sending messages marked URGENT when the issue could have waited until morning.
She talked about the little victories too.
An employee she’d helped gain confidence. A project that had nearly collapsed but somehow came together.
The first time someone had come to her for advice rather than simply following an instruction.
Those were the moments she seemed proudest of.
Mrs. Edith listened closely. "And outside work?"
Sacha shrugged. "I’m alive."
"That isn’t an answer."
"Fine. I’ve made friends. Lost touch with some people. Kept in touch with others. I’ve gone out. I’ve traveled a little. Nothing dramatic."
"Anyone special?"
Sacha immediately looked at her. "Ah."
Mrs. Edith smiled innocently. "I was only asking."
"You were absolutely not only asking."
Mia lowered her head, suddenly very interested in her rice.
Stan said nothing, but had a slight smile on his face, he watched as Sacha looked around the table before saying, "No."
Mrs. Edith waited. "No what?"
"No one special."
"Not even anyone interesting?"
"Interesting people are dangerous."
Stan nodded. "That’s true."
Sacha pointed at him. "You’re not helping."
Mrs. Edith chuckled. "Well, as long as you’re happy."
"I am."
"And taking care of yourself?"
"Mostly."
"Mostly, just that?"
"I sleep."
"How much?"
Sacha hesitated.
Mrs. Edith immediately knew. "Sacha."
"Enough sleep, ."
"That is not a number."
"Six hours sometimes."
Mrs. Edith frowned. "Try seven."
"I’ll try."
"Try harder."
"Yes, ma’am." Sacha smiled and returned to her food.
For a while, they spoke of the old homw in passing—the path worn between houses, rainy windows, children who had once treated two kitchens as one.
Stan ate more than he had expected to. He offered short answers when Sacha pulled him into conversations, smiled whenever she circled back to the hug at the doorway as though it were a seasonal topic.
Mia remained soft-spoken, her color rising and fading whenever Sacha teased her, but she was comfortable enough that she occasionally forgot to guard herself.
She laughed at Sacha’s imitation of her former manager.
She smiled at Mrs. Edith’s dry corrections. She leaned slightly toward Stan without realizing it.
And every so often, when she thought no one was looking, she simply looked around the table.
Four people, warm food. Familiar voices. For once, nothing needed fixing. Utensils clicked. Steam thinned.
Second helpings appeared because Mrs. Edith decided they would.
"More?" she asked Stan.
"A little."
"A little is how men say yes."
She served him anyway.
Sacha leaned back, satisfied. "See? The house still works."
She gestured around the table. "Four plates. Too much food. Me, unappreciated. Perfect."
"You’re appreciated," Mia said.
Sacha immediately pointed at her. "Say it while looking at me."
Mia looked up, smiling helplessly. "You’re appreciated."
"Better."
Sacha lifted her cup. "To existing. I was worried."
Mrs. Edith’s laugh was quiet. Outside, evening thickened against the windows.
Inside, the conversation settled into a lull that didn’t feel like an ending.
Only a breath between mouthfuls. The table held them the way it had been built to—warm, ordinary, and full.
They soon finished eating. Mia stood first and began packing the dishes, stacking plates with care. Utensils gathered in her other hand. The table looked suddenly larger without the work of food on it.
Mrs. Edith watched her for a moment, then turned to Sacha.
"You’ll be all right sleeping with Mia in her room? Stan can take the guest room."
Sacha did not hesitate. "I’m fine with it. Why would I have a problem with that?"
Mrs. Edith’s mouth eased, as if a small household equation had balanced.
"I didn’t want to just eat and sit," Sacha added. "I’ll help Mia wash up."
"You’ve already helped with the cooking," Mrs. Edith said, gentle, already tired in the kind way. "You don’t need to stress yourself further."
"I do, actually. That’s the point."
Stan, who had been listening without inserting himself, spoke then. "I’ll help too."
Mrs. Edith looked at the three of them and knew she was outnumbered. The sigh she gave was fond and defeated in equal measure. These two—children she had long regarded as almost her own—were determined to help her daughter with the dishes. She could not refuse them.
"Go on, then. The sink doesn’t negotiate."
They took the stacks through. The kitchen still smelled of stew and spice; heat lingered above the stove. Water ran. Plates found a rhythm: Mia rinsing, Stan washing with calm efficiency, Sacha drying and setting things in the rack as if she had never left the geography of this particular counter.
"You missed a spot," Sacha said, not meaning it.
Stan turned the plate under the tap. "I didn’t."
"I know. I just like the sound of management."
Mia smiled at the sink. "Thank you. Both of you. I usually do this part alone and pretend it’s meditation."
"It’s not meditation," Sacha said. "It’s dishes. Don’t give porcelain a spiritual life."
A glass clinked against another. Water drummed the basin. Mia’s shoulder brushed Stan’s as she passed him a bowl; she murmured sorry and did not look sorry. Sacha noticed, of course, and only hummed, a soft tease without teeth.
"Some teams never change their positions."
"Sis."
"I’m drying. I’m allowed commentary."
Mrs. Edith appeared once in the doorway, cloth in hand, then left them to it, her weary affection hanging in the air like the last of the steam.
They finished quickly. Coordination did that. The counter came clean. The rack filled. The tap shut off and left a dripping quiet that felt like a completed sentence.
Stan dried his hands.
"I’ll take the guest room," he said. "Good night. Thank you for dinner."
"Sleep," Mrs. Edith answered from the hall. "Goodnight. Have a good sleep, see you in the morning Stan."
....
A/N:
What do you guys think of the story so far? I hope you guys are enjoying it