There was a pause.
“Daphne.”
“I know that tone.”
“I’m perfectly happy eating at home.”
“That’s not the point.”
She sighed.
I could picture her sitting at her kitchen table, probably turning a coffee mug between both hands.
“Restaurants are exhausting.”
“Not this one.”
I had already chosen her favorite little Italian restaurant.
Nothing fancy.
Just good food and a place where everyone seemed kind.
She had loved it years ago. The dining room was small, with warm yellow lights, old photographs on the walls, and tables close enough together that the place always felt busy without becoming overwhelming.
Eventually, she gave in.
