It gets a little laugh out of her-- and in spite of how awkward and odd everything is, the genuine joy suffusing her at his being here bubbles up through it.

"Okay, but there's nothing that used to be food, either," she teases. The apartment doesn't feel lived in, but it's certainly well-kept. She can't help but feel something like self-conscious about it. All these months she'd never been able to articulate why she was keeping it, a strange and silent mausoleum. It wasn't because any part of her expected to see him again. It's not as though it made sense to keep it for the baby; what was she going to do, bring him over to play? Say your father lived here, as though it were a link?

"I don't know why I wasn't able to let it go," she admits, curling her hands into loose, anxious fists. It worked out, clearly. Had there been some part of her that knew-- that imagined? No; it wasn't a wish she'd let herself wish.

I missed you so much. The words catch in her throat, but every cell in her body practically shouts it.