Clair stared at her list. It contained items she would need to make Mack, her husband, mac and cheese.

Reading it, she got lost in the memories of Mack serving her his mac and cheese. He was very proud of it. So much so, she let him have this one dish. She would never make it or buy it. It was his.

On their sixth date, he’d made dinner for her at his place. Mac and cheese. It was dry, gummy, salty, and burnt. When she saw the damage done to his kitchen, her heart melted, unlike the cheddar.

Sometimes the mess left behind after an attempt at showing how much you love someone says more about the weight of that love than the actual result. The mayhem in his kitchen and the dismantled smoke detector proved how hard he’d tried.

The produce showers cycled on, spraying her with a fine mist of water, reminding her that Mack was at home, never able to walk again. Never to make mac and cheese again.

This was going to be the hardest dish she’d ever make. It would have to be just like his, lovingly perfect.