The steam rising from the pot smelled of brine, cream, and ten years of effort. Julieta Benjamin adjusted her grip on the heavy ceramic handles, her knuckles white against the navy blue of her dress. It was a Tuesday. Tuesdays were usually for leftovers or takeout, but today was the tenth of October. Ten years since she’d walked down the aisle of the First Baptist Church, ignoring the quiet whispers of her cousins about marrying "up," and said yes to Elwood Santoro. She set the tureen down on the trivet. The clink of ceramic against cork was the only sound in the dining room. Elwood didn't look up. He sat at the head of the mahogany table, the light from the chandelier catching the silver threads beginning to invade his dark, gelled hair. He was scrolling on his phone. His thumb moved with a rhythmic, dismissive swipe. Swipe. Swipe. Swipe. "Elwood," Julieta said softly. "The chowder. It’s the recipe from the Cape. The one you like." He stopped scrolling. He didn't lock the phone. He just set it face down on the placemat. The screen glowed for a second, illuminating a text notification, before fading to black. "Sit down, Julieta," he said. His voice was flat. Not angry. Not tired. Just empty. It was the voice he used when he was negotiating a zoning permit with a difficult city councilor. Julieta untied her apron, folding it neatly over the back of her chair. A small knot