I looked up at her and met her eyes. She was suffering and I was weakening. Hell, I was suffering, too. I gave her a weak smile before answering.

“I think Joe is stepping up his game. He doesn’t cook. He usually goes for some kind of frozen dinner entrée or pizza.”

“It smells good,” Bethany said as she looked away from my gaze.

Baby steps. “Yeah.”

Dad got home and set the table while Joe finished the salad. His idea of salad was a few leaves of lettuce with a ton of cheese, olives, cold cuts, and peppers. By the time my nails were painted, Mom joined us all...