He still cooked like someone might show up.
Gage plated the chili even though he was already full. He spooned it into one of his regular bowls, the ones with faint red stains from spaghetti and a chip near the rim. He folded a paper towel and laid it beside the bowl. Not a napkin. That felt like pretending it was a special occasion.
He placed the dish on the second shelf of the fridge next to the milk. The shelf sagged slightly, worn down by repetition.
Two years ago, his daughter Aubrey would grab her plate and heat it up without speaking. Sometimes she ate in her room. Sometimes in the car. He used to hear the microwave beep, the door close, her footsteps overhead. She stopped coming after the fight. That was before high school ended.
He had told her she could not go out with friends until she finished her homework.
“You act like I’m some kind of project,” she said. “Like I’m supposed to be fixed.”
He said that was part of being a parent. She slammed the door. Her mother called later and told him to back off. He said maybe Aubrey needed to take responsibility. That was the last time she came over.
For a while, he kept cooking her favorite meals. Macaroni and cheese. Mini frozen pizzas. Grilled cheese with too much butter. After that, it became whatever he made for himself. Scrambled eggs. Chili. Sandwiches. If he was tired, he made toast. Still, every night, he plated an extra dish. He no longer looked at it.
The night he didn’t make anything, he was working late. Milton had asked him to pick up a security shift at the warehouse. Gage agreed. He could use the money.
They sat in the booth watching cameras until after midnight. Milton played a game on his phone for most of the shift.
“I’m thinking drive-thru on the way home,” Gage said.
“Same,” Milton said. “You doing burgers or tacos?”
“Probably burgers.”
“You still want to run that campaign Friday?”
“Yeah,” Gage said. “Should be good. Got the map ready.”
“I better not roll another one on initiative. Feels cursed.”
“Maybe your dice hate you.”
“I’m switching sets. Old-school punishment.”
Gage nodded. He didn’t bring up the chili.
He stopped at a fast-food place near the highway. Fries. A burger. Too much salt. He ate in the car with the window cracked, then drove home. The kitchen was dark. He dropped the bag in the trash and opened the fridge. The light buzzed faintly. Inside were the gallon of milk, a jar of salsa, and a container of old potato salad. No plate. No folded towel.
He stood with his hand on the fridge door. Cool air drifted across his arm. Then he closed it and went to bed.
The next night, he came home at the usual time. He made a stir-fry with carrots and broccoli. Not enough garlic. He split it across two plates without thinking. One plate went to the table. The other went on the second shelf beside the milk. He folded the paper towel and slid it beside the bowl.
The shelf tilted slightly. He did not fix it.
Milton texted around nine.
Still on for Friday?
Gage sent back a thumbs-up.
Aubrey’s old water bottle was still in the dish rack. He had stopped noticing it. The microwave blinked twelve. He left it alone.
Sometimes he pictured her walking in. She would take the food, heat it up, eat at the counter. No conversation. No big moment. Just food. That used to be enough.
He no longer counted on it. But he did not stop cooking.
The fridge held space for her. That was all he could do.
Kristina Warlen is a literary and speculative writer whose work explores memory, impermanence, emotional thresholds, and the quiet fractures that shift a life’s direction. Her stories often linger in liminal spaces—between grief and connection, childhood and change, silence and revelation. She writes flash, micro, and short fiction that blends the ordinary with the uncanny. Her work has appeared on the TWLOHA blog, in 50-Word Stories, and is forthcoming in Eunoia Review and Corporeal Lit Mag.
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