The Cup Cakes.

Mara made cupcakes the next afternoon.

Not because she needed sugar, or comfort, or distraction.
She made them because she wanted to stay with the memory long enough to understand it, without replaying it.

She moved slowly. Measured the flour. Cracked the eggs carefully. Let the kitchen be quiet.

As they baked, she sat at the table with a cup of tea and thought about Jon.

He had been a good man. Kind in many ways. Consistent. Calm.

But when the cake had cracked, he had not paused.
He had not asked how it felt.
He had not stayed curious.

He had removed the problem and moved on.

Mara understood now that it was not cruelty.
It was capacity.

Some people are comfortable with smooth surfaces.
Some know how to stay when something splits open.

When the cupcakes were done, one had risen unevenly. The top had split slightly, imperfect and obvious.

She smiled.

She iced it anyway. Gently. Let the icing follow the crack instead of covering it. Then she ate it with her tea.

The cake was still good.
The moment was still good.

What mattered was not the absence of cracks.
It was the willingness to notice them, speak about them, and repair together.

That did not make Jon a bad man.
It simply meant he would need to learn that skill.

Mara washed the dishes, feeling calm.

She was not waiting for perfection anymore.
She was waiting for someone who could stay.