Marcus nodded, grateful for the small mercy. He opened the menu, but his eyes skipped past the ribeyes and the prime rib, landing squarely on the back page:
His wife, Elena, had been a purist. Every anniversary, she’d fork-fight him for the last bite of the dense, creamy slice, the strawberry glaze catching the candlelight. She’d always win. He’d always let her.
Marcus smiled for the first time in a week. "And the Strawberry Cheesecake. Two forks." saltgrass dessert menu
Their waitress, a woman named Dottie with silver hair and sensible shoes, arrived not with a pen and pad, but with a knowing smile. "Y'all look like you need a minute," she said, placing two laminated cards on the table. "But I'll leave these. The kitchen sent out some bread. The honey butter helps most things."
It was a litany of salvation.
The leather booth creaked as Marcus slid into it, the long day of driving from Houston finally settling into his bones. Across from him, his daughter, Lena, traced a finger over the condensation on her water glass. She was twelve now, too old for the kids' menu, too young for the silent weight that had filled the car since the funeral.
Dottie materialized again. "Decide on anything?" Marcus nodded, grateful for the small mercy
Lena finally looked up. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but dry. "I'm not hungry for chicken," she said, her voice small. "Can we just... look at the dessert menu?"