Numb, she gathers ingredients for an evening meal. Her grown children have stayed after the funeral, and cooking is the only thing that she can do “half-way right,” as her late father was fond of pointing out.
Not smart enough for college or capable enough for a career, he had also said, “Best to face reality, Sweetheart. I love you, but - I’m biased.”
Distractedly grabbing the old pepper mill, tearfully grinding the beloved spice with which her father insisted that she season his food - she suddenly stops, cracked peppercorns staring up at her.
She doesn’t even like pepper!
