I ought to have known the second the kitchen floor didn’t creak the way it usually does when Anna’s making coffee.

After twenty-two years of marriage, you start to learn the specific weight of a person’s step on old pine, the little hollow thuds near the pantry where the subfloor settled back during the Eisenhower administration. But I was deep into the sports section, trying to ignore a column about the local mill down-sizing again, so I missed the warning signs entirely.

Anna didn’t just walk into the living room. She drifted in like she was carrying state secrets.

She set the ceramic mug down on the cherry-wood side table right next to my elbow with a quiet little click that somehow sounded sharper than usual. The steam curling off the surface was thin and dark, lacking that milky swirl of half-and-half I’ve depended on since the Carter administration.

I didn’t look up from the newsprint right away. I just reached out my right hand, grabbed the handle, and took a good, healthy swig without looking.

Ugh! Anna, this coffee tastes absolutely terrible! It is completely bitter and has zero sugar! What is wrong with you?

I spat the mouthful back into the cup, coughing against the sudden acid hit rolling over my tongue. It tasted like scorched beans and old copper pennies.

Anna just stood there by the lamp with her hands folded neatly over the front of her apron, her head tilted just a fraction to the left.

She wasn’t frowning. She wasn’t looking apologetic. She was smiling that slow, terrifying little smile she only breaks out when she’s about to re-shingle the roof by herself or prove me wrong about something from 1998.

Oh, honey, there is nothing wrong with the coffee, she said, her voice dropping into that sweet, syrupy register that usually precedes a lecture on home maintenance. I made it perfectly.

Then why is it so bitter?!

Because five minutes ago, I looked at your phone and saw a text from a girl named Jessica saying See you tonight, handsome. I decided that instead of putting sugar in your cup, I would just let you taste exactly what your life is going to look like starting tomorrow!

The room tilted. Just a fraction, but enough to make my boots feel loose on the rug.

My heart didn’t just skip a beat; it climbed up into my throat and started beating against my molars like a trapped sparrow.

My face went completely slack, and I could feel every drop of blood draining right out of my ears.

Anna! Wait! Jessica is my cousin from out of town!

The silence that followed was long enough to hear the grandfather clock in the hall tick three separate times. Anna didn’t blink. She just held her ground by the end table, her eyes narrowing slightly as she weighed every syllable I had just uttered.

I know, dear, she said softly, the smile breaking into a full, triumphant grin. I just wanted to see how fast your heart would beat. Now, go wash your own cup!

I sat there for a second with my mouth half open, the taste of black chicory clinging to the roof of my mouth like punishment. The paper slipped out of my fingers and slid down onto my knees.

My heart was still doing handsprings against my ribs, hammering away like I’d just tried to sprint up the hill behind the church.

I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding, and then I started to laugh. It was a ragged, stupid kind of laugh, the kind you make when you realize you’ve just walked face-first into a door that you left unlocked yourself.

You are a cruel woman, Anna, I muttered, pushing myself up off the old sofa with a groan that came straight from my lower back. Absolutely ruthless.

She just laughed, picking up my discarded newspaper and folding it neatly into quarters.

Next time, lock your screen, Tom, she called out as I shuffled down the hall toward the kitchen. And don’t waste good coffee!

The kitchen was warm, smelling faintly of the lemon oil Anna uses on the oak table every Thursday. The sun was dipping low behind the ridge past the state line, throwing long, slanted bars of amber light across the linoleum.

I stood at the stainless-steel sink, turning the handle until the cold water hissed through the aerator. I shoved my mug under the stream and watched the dark, bitter dregs swirl down the drain, taking with them the last ragged edges of my afternoon panic.

It was funny, in a cold-sweat sort of way. Anna always had this radar for complacency. If she thought for even half a second that I was taking our routine for granted, or getting too comfortable leaving my gadgets face-up on the counter, she’d invent some elaborate little psychological exercise to remind me that she was still running the switchboard.

I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out my phone. The screen lit up with a soft blue glow against the dimming kitchen.

There it was, sitting right on top of the lock screen like a small digital grenade. A text from Jessica sent six minutes ago: Flight’s down, bags are claimed, see you tonight, handsome!

I tapped the screen and opened the full thread. Underneath that one message were three others from earlier in the week, detailing flight numbers out of Boston, questions about whether our guest room still had that extra wool blanket for the New England chill, and a reminder that she needed a ride from the regional depot because her rental car fell through at the last minute.

I shook my head, rinsing the ceramic until it squeaked under my thumb, and carried it back to the drying rack.

Anna was already at the stove, browning three pounds of chuck roast in the heavy cast-iron Dutch oven we got for our tenth anniversary. The sound of meat hitting hot fat filled the room with that deep, savory sizzle that means dinner’s going to take an hour but be worth every minute of the wait.

You want some real coffee now or should I brew a pot of chamomile so you don’t have another cardiac event before six? she asked without turning around, her wooden spatula scraping the bottom of the pot to loosen the brown bits.

Real coffee, please, I said, walking over to wrap my arms around her waist from behind and resting my chin on her shoulder. And this time, I want three packets of sugar and enough cream to turn it the color of a fresh linen tablecloth.

You’ve got to earn the cream, Tom, she murmured, leaning back against me for just a second before nudging my elbow out of the way so she could grab the salt cellar. Go check the guest room and make sure the radiator isn’t knocking again. Jessica hates that rhythmic clank when she’s trying to study her pharmacology notes.

I gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze and headed up the narrow stairs, stepping carefully over the third tread because it always gives a little groan if you catch it wrong.

Our house has never been big, but it’s ours, every creaking board and drafty corner of it. We bought it right after the mill took on twenty new machinists back in the nineties, thinking we’d be here five years max before moving down toward Portland. Twenty-two years later, the mill’s down to a skeleton crew, Portland’s too crowded to breathe, and we’re still right here in the middle of Maine, arguing about coffee and visiting family.

The guest room smelled of fresh lavender detergent and old cedar. I knelt by the radiator, giving the iron valve a half-turn to make sure it was seated right, then straightened the extra quilt across the foot of the maple bed.

Jessica was our favorite among the younger bunch. She was twenty-four now, sharp as a tack, and spending every spare minute of her life trying to land a residency slot at the medical center down in Bangor. She had our stubborn streak, the kind that makes you work forty-eight hours straight without complaining just because you said you would.

When we first heard she was coming up for the interview weekend three weeks ago, Anna had spent two solid days cleaning out the spare closet and stocking the little wicker basket in the bathroom with soaps and shampoos she’d been hoarding from hotels down in Boston. The idea that Anna didn’t know who she was for even a fraction of a second was laughable in hindsight. Anna tracks our family tree better than the county clerk.

Downstairs, the front doorbell rang twice, short and sharp, right through the floorboards.

That’s her, Anna called out from the kitchen, her voice muffled by the pantry door. Go let her in before she freezes on the porch!

I took the stairs two at a time, nearly slipping on the runner at the bottom, and threw the front door wide open just as Jessica was reaching out to press the brass button a third time.

She looked smaller than I remembered, bundled up in a heavy navy pea coat with her dark hair pulled back into a messy clip, her arms wrapped around a worn canvas duffel bag that looked like it had been through every bus station from here to Ohio.

Uncle Tom! she yelled, dropping the duffel right on the welcome mat and throwing both arms around my neck before I could even draw a breath.

Whoa there, watch the ribs, I laughed, picking her up a couple of inches off the porch floor and spinning her around once before setting her back down on the concrete. Look at you. You look half-starved. Are they not feeding medical students down there anymore?

Only ramen and cafeteria coffee, and mostly cold, she said, stepping inside and kicking off her boots with a practiced flick of her heels. Anna! Is that pot roast I smell? If you say no, I’m getting back in the cab.

Anna came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a dish towel, her face lit up with that real, honest-to-goodness smile she reserves for people she actually likes.

It’s pot roast, and if you don’t wash your hands right now, I’m giving your share to your uncle, who has spent the last ten minutes crying over a cup of black coffee, Anna said, walking over to pull Jessica into a tight, fierce hug that almost knocked the girl’s glasses sideways.

Jessica pulled back, looking between the two of us with a sharp, suspicious twinkle in her eye that she definitely got from my side of the family.

What’s that supposed to mean? Did he do something stupid with his phone again?

Oh, he left it sitting right there on the cushion while he was reading the paper, Anna said, turning back toward the kitchen with a smug little swing of her shoulders. I found a very nice text from a certain handsome niece of his and decided to teach him a lesson about sugar rations.

Jessica let out a bark of laughter that echoed right off the hallway wallpaper.

You didn’t! Did you send him the ‘see you tonight’ one? I told her to type that just to see if you’d panic, Uncle Tom! You didn’t actually think I was someone else, did you?

I walked into the kitchen behind them, shaking my head and holding up my hands in surrender.

I didn’t think anything. Your aunt ambushed me while I was defenseless. My brain stopped working entirely for about forty-five seconds. I thought my whole life was about to be turned upside down over a cup of chicory.

Jessica dropped into the wooden chair at the end of the table, still laughing as she unbuttoned her coat and tossed it over the back.

Well, considering how much sugar you put in everything, Uncle Tom, a little bitterness once in a while is probably good for your character. Doctor’s orders.

We sat down around the table ten minutes later, the three of us packed into that little dinette nook like we’d never been apart. The room was thick with the rich, heavy smell of carrots, potatoes, and slow-cooked beef that had been simmering in red wine since noon.

Anna set a fresh, steaming mug of coffee down right next to my plate, complete with a little silver pitcher of cream and a white ceramic bowl filled to the brim with sugar cubes.

Here, she said, her eyes dancing with quiet amusement as she sat down across from me. Try this one. I supervised the sugar myself.

I took the small silver spoon, dropped two cubes into the dark liquid, and watched them dissolve into a sweet, creamy swirl before taking a careful sip. It was hot, rich, and sweet enough to rot a tooth, and it tasted like home.

Across the table, Jessica was already halfway through her second potato, talking a mile a minute about her board scores and the three different hospitals she had interviews at over the next fortnight. Anna leaned her chin in her hand, listening to every word with total attention, occasionally reaching across to pat Jessica’s hand or fill her glass with iced tea.

I sat back against the wooden slats of my chair, the warmth of the coffee settling deep into my chest, and watched the two of them trade stories about family back down south.

My heart rate was finally back to normal, the panic of twenty minutes ago completely gone, leaving only the steady, familiar rhythm of our kitchen at twilight.

I reached across the table, grabbed Anna’s hand where it rested near the salt shaker, and gave her fingers a soft squeeze. She didn’t look up from Jessica right away, but her thumb turned over to lock gently against mine beneath the rim of the table, holding on tight.