I sat on the kitchen floor with that recipe box in my lap like it was evidence in a case I didn’t know I was investigating.
“For when you’re alone, make chicken soup.”
“For when you’re alone, make apple slices and peanut butter.”
“For when you’re alone, make toast and eat it standing up if you can’t sit.”
Some of them were normal. Some of them were strangely specific.
“For when you’re alone, peel potatoes slowly. Don’t rush. You’re not late.”
I stared at that one until the words blurred.
Because it felt like it was aimed directly at me.
I turned the card over and saw a name written in the corner: “Marian L.”
I didn’t know who Marian was. I didn’t know who “Jim” was. I didn’t know how that recipe box ended up in a thrift store fifty minutes from my apartment. But I did know one thing: the peeler and the recipe box had come from the same place.
