The invitation came on a Sunday.
The message to Zeph had been simple: Sunday. Six o'clock. Bring nothing.
He knocked at six. The door opened and Sarah Chen was already there, sitting at the table with the ease of someone who had arrived earlier and had been helping with the cooking.
She looked up when he came in, gave him the standard assessment look she always gave him, and said "you look less terrible than last week" which was, from Sarah, practically a standing ovation.
Grandma Chen put food in front of him before he had fully sat down.
The evening was warm in the way Grandma Chen's apartment was always warm—the specific warmth of a space that had been lived in well for a long time, the grandchildren moving between rooms, the television on at a low volume in the background, the smell of food that had been made with the specific intention of making people feel better.
