Natalie stood in the doorway, the motel key still in her hand, her eyes scanning the inside of the room like it was the site of a fresh crime scene. Not that far off, if you counted everything invisible. The place smelled faintly of cleaning solution, TV dinners, and the faintest ghost of burnt plastic, the kind of clean that only covers up, not removes. She tossed the key onto the dresser, missed. It clattered to the floor, and she didn’t bother picking it up.

“You cooked,” she said, flat. Not surprised, not grateful. Just... acknowledging.

The table was set with two chipped plates, something steaming in the center, and a fork already in her spot like they’d expected her to come back as someone else. Maybe that version of Natalie, the one from rehab, from group, from the promises she made with her teeth clenched and hands shaking, was supposed to walk through the door. But it was just her. Still her.

She kicked off her boots, one landing on its side, the other upright like it was standing watch. Sat down. Leaned back, then forward again. She lit a cigarette before remembering she wasn’t supposed to anymore. Stared at it between her fingers like it might disappear if she blinked slowly enough.

“Don’t worry. Not laced,” she said. “I’m not that much of an asshole.”

No smile. No warmth. Just truth, jagged and weirdly offered like it counted for something.

They’d made pasta. Real pasta. Not the instant kind that came in a foam cup. Garlic, maybe. She took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed.

“It's edible,” she said. Which, for her, was high praise. “You trying to bribe me or something?”

They didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. She already knew. Could see it all over their face, their movements. This was a peace offering they didn’t believe in. A last-ditch attempt they probably hated themselves for making. And yet, they still cooked. They still sat across from her.

Natalie blew out a stream of smoke, away from them. “I get it. You want me to be someone else. Better. Safer. Less... whatever the hell I am.”

She pushed the food around with her fork. A pause. Then, quiet, half-laughing, “Bet you tell your friends I’m dead.”

Their silence was heavy, and in it, Natalie leaned back again, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hands like she could press back the years.

“You know the worst part?” she said, dragging the cigarette down to the ashtray, tapping it out like it was talking too loud. “I used to think maybe I’d be the kind of mom who could pull it off. Like... I'd screw up, sure, but in a cool, messed-up Lorelai Gilmore way. But I wasn’t even there enough to fuck you up interestingly.”

She looked up at them, really looked, eyes clear in that terrifying post-rehab honesty glow that always fades fast. “I’m not gonna say sorry. That’s not how this works. I left you hanging more times than I can count, I know. I know you hate me. You don’t have to fake nice about it.”

A longer silence this time. Something raw twisted at the edge of her mouth, not quite a smile, not quite a sneer.

“You want to know why I used?” she asked, voice sharp now. “Why I kept disappearing, even when you begged me not to? You. You happened. I didn’t know what the hell to do with a kid. You’re not supposed to tell kids that, right? But I never did the supposed-to part.”

She finished the plate anyway. Not because she was hungry. Because it was what she was supposed to do now. Pretend like things could go differently this time. Like she could climb out of the ditch with a couple meals and an NA sponsor and a well-timed cry.

“I’m trying,” she said, more to the table than them. “Doesn’t mean it’s gonna work.”

Another drag. Another long look across the table. She didn't reach for them. Didn’t say thank you. But she didn’t leave, either. And for Natalie, that counted.

“You made dinner,” she muttered again, softer this time. “Shit. You’re already doing better than me.”