I was mildly curious to know what she had bought, but my overriding emotion was the need to be alone; to get myself away from the sympathetic eyes of everyone around me. Grace had found her son, and my son had found his mother, somewhere in that equation sat me, the woman who had raised him. I considered bolting upstairs and crying into a pillow, but pride prevented it. I may have lost my son to this woman, but I had no intention of losing my dignity to her as well. Instead, I decided to correct the catering deficit and hid in the kitchen with a cheese grater and pasta. I resented the meal for its simplicity, and dragged the process out as far as I could. Realistically, though, there really was a limit to how complicated I could make this macaroni cheese. I toyed with the idea of creating a desert, even rummaged through the cupboards with the thought of baking a cake, but in the end I didn’t have the enthusiasm. What I really wanted was somewhere to hide, not something to do, yet pride prevented me from seeking solace in my room.
