The kitchen was thick with the scent of turkey and oats, and as I pulled the tray from the oven, Krzysztof’s voice cut through the haze, asking what was for dinner. I told him, with a hint of pride, that I was baking biscuits—for Lord, our dog, not for him. Lord was the only one who seemed to understand me these days, and as I fussed over his treats, I wondered if anyone else in this house ever truly listened.