Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 38

When I parked I immediately saw them, dad sitting on a low stool, Claire leaning over him, laughing as she wiped a streak of grease from his cheek. Her hand lingered a second longer than necessary, then both of them giggled like teenagers.

I stepped out of the car and called, “Mind if I disturb you?”

Claire’s face turned the color of ripe tomatoes. “Hey, B…” she said, standing up quickly, almost too quickly, and pulled me into a hug.

And I… I hugged her back.

There was something in the embrace not the shape or the pressure, but the intention. Claire didn’t smell like my mother, didn’t move like her, didn’t pretend to replace her, and yet, in that moment, the warmth felt like a safety net. A kind of woman-to-woman love. An answer to a longing I hadn’t realized was still echoing.

“What brought you here, kid?” dad called out, wiping his hands with a grease-stained rag.

“I just thought of dropping by,” I said. “James is having basketball practice, so I had some spare time.”

He put a hand on his chest and staggered dramatically. “Really? Now your old man only gets your spare time? Ouch.”

I rolled my eyes, laughing. “Whatever, Dad.”

He chuckled, tossing the rag onto the table beside him. “I’m craving soup. There’s beef in the fridge, maybe you can cook that?”

“Alright,” I answered, brushing hair from my face, already mentally scanning the kitchen cabinets. “I’ll figure something out.”

I heditantly turned to Claire. “Hey… maybe you can stop by for dinner too?”

The question wasn’t out of politeness, not an obligation, not a duty. It was an invitation carved out of sincerity. I had seen how Claire looked at my dad... the way she cared for him, quietly and without demand. It was gentle. It was good. And good things… should be invited in.

Claire beamed, hand over her chest like she’d just been handed something fragile and precious. “Of course, darling. I’d love to.”

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The house smelled like home.

Not the kind of home you’re born into, but the kind you rebuild. The kind that comes together piece by piece: sautéed garlic in hot oil, the clink of utensils, the low hum of a rice cooker, the buzz of old ceiling lights that flickered sometimes, but never gave out.

The soup simmered gently on the stove, steam curling upward like a lullaby. I had added onions, beef, a few carrots, and leafy greens, the kind Mom used to use when I was younger, when rainy days made everything feel a little softer.

Now it wasn’t raining, but I guess grief has its own kind of weather.

“Smells amazing,” Dad said, peeking into the pot. “You sure you don’t want to drop out and become a chef?”

“You always say that when I cook literally anything,” I laughed, handing him a spoon. “Taste it first before you sell me off to culinary school.”

He slurped and closed his eyes like he was in some fancy commercial. “Mmm. Approved.”

Claire chuckled as she set down the utensils on the small dining table, her bead bracelets softly clinking like wind chimes. She moved with this grace, measured, gentle, like she always thought about the space she was in, like she didn’t want to disturb anything. I admired that about her. Some people enter rooms like earthquakes. Claire entered like a breeze.