"Plates"

 

The day after Annelise gave birth, two women whom Annelise didn't know came to her hospital room and gave her the plates.

Annelise accepted the box, which also contained four salad bowls to match, and gave the women a long, lean frown. "What are you doing with my mom's dishware?" she asked them.

"Not hers," said one of the women. Her hair was sprayed and pinned into a neat ponytail, and her hands were folded in front of her. "They're actually yours. Your very own set."

"They're affordable, durable, perfect for kids to eat off of," said the other. "My mom used to make me spaghetti all the time. Always with the noodles and sauce separate. I'd mix them together on a plate just like one of those."

"My mother would leave rolls out for me on one of the small plates," the first woman said. "She was usually at work by the time I woke up for school."

"Welcome to the club, Annelise," the second woman said. "Hold on to those plates, and you'll do just fine." The two women exited the room, leaving Annelise to sit back on the hospital bed and think, about cheese and crackers, toaster waffles, all the good things she could remember, and to feel, for the first time since she had seen her daughter's face, a little less afraid.