Chapter 54

Peter stood outside the Allan apartment door, holding a simple bouquet of white lilies. Nothing too flashy, nothing too romantic—just balanced. Thoughtful. Appropriate.

The door opened after the second knock.

"Peter," Margaret said, her tone bright. "It's nice to see you again."

"Nice to see you too, ma'am. These are for you."

"Oh—thank you! That's very sweet."

She stepped aside and waved him in. The apartment was modest but warm—soft beige walls, framed photos on the shelves, the scent of something roasted wafting in from the kitchen.

Liz appeared from the hallway. "Hey! Right on time."

She looked more casual than usual—soft jeans, loose sweater, hair pulled back. Comfortable.

The table was small but inviting, covered with a soft checkered cloth and three simple plates. In the center sat a dish of roasted chicken glazed with herbs, a bowl of stir-fried vegetables with sesame, and a loaf of fresh garlic bread wrapped in a kitchen towel to keep warm.

Peter sat across from Liz while Margaret moved around the kitchen, pouring water into tall glasses.

"This smells amazing," Peter said honestly.

"Mom's secret is she acts humble but secretly wants to show off every time someone new eats here," Liz said, grinning.

Margaret chuckled. "Absolutely true. I usually just microwave leftovers, but today's special."

They all sat down, and after a short blessing offered by Margaret—soft and habitual—they began eating.

"So, Peter," Margaret began, slicing a piece of chicken. "Liz tells me you're brilliant at science?"

Peter shrugged modestly. "I'm okay."

"Okay?" Liz gave him a look. "You're running the highest marks in physics and bio. Don't listen to him, Mom—he just doesn't brag."

"Well, that's refreshing," Margaret said. "Most boys your age can't stop talking about themselves."

Peter gave a faint smile. "I prefer showing up on exam papers."

Liz snorted into her glass of water.

As dinner went on, conversation began to flow naturally. Margaret, with her brown curls pulled back into a bun and her cardigan sleeves rolled halfway, exuded a calm, nurturing energy—tired around the edges, but solid.

"I work at Memorial Presbyterian Hospital," she explained when Peter asked. "Admin desk—long hours, decent people, awful vending machine coffee."

Peter nodded. "That sounds… like Midtown, minus the coffee."

Margaret laughed. "I like you already."

Liz rolled her eyes playfully. "Mom, don't recruit him to your anti-caffeine cult."

"I'm just saying," Margaret replied. "The boy drinks tea. That puts him ahead of half your classmates already."

Later, Liz pulled out an old photo album from the side shelf. She opened it to a page filled with faded but clear photos of her as a toddler—wrapped in oversized sweaters, biting into oversized sandwiches, sitting beside a small cake shaped like a bunny.

"Is that a bowl cut?" Peter asked, mock-serious.

Liz groaned. "Mom was going through a phase."

"It was cute!" Margaret defended. "And cheaper than a salon."

Peter leaned in. "You look like a young mushroom. But in a charming way."

"I will kill you with this fork."

"You already invited me to lunch. It's too late. I've got diplomatic immunity."

Margaret watched the back-and-forth with a quiet smile. Her eyes lingered on her daughter, and then moved to Peter with something softer—gratitude, perhaps, or quiet relief.

As dessert arrived—a simple store-bought apple pie warmed in the oven—Margaret asked about school.

"How's everything at Midtown? Is the Flash situation still... tense?"

Peter exchanged a look with Liz.

"Things are quieter now," he said. 

"Most of the class is glad Flash isn't around," Liz added. "He made the place unbearable. It's just quieter now."

Margaret gave a tight nod. "Well... good riddance, I suppose. You two focus on your academics."

Peter tilted his head. "You always this calm about things?"

Margaret smiled. "Being a hospital admin means living in a world where every phone call could be an emergency. You learn to keep the emotions where they belong."

Peter filed that away. She's strong. Like May. Different flavor, but same foundation.

Eventually, Margaret excused herself to take a call, leaving them alone at the table.

Liz glanced at Peter, chewing her bottom lip.

"I'm glad you came."

"Why wouldn't I?"

She hesitated. "My dad used to promise stuff like this. Family dinners. Movie nights. He'd make plans... then bail."

Peter didn't say anything. He just listened.

"He left when I was nine," she continued. "Told Mom he couldn't handle it. He sends postcards from time to time, but that's it. I guess I still expect people to walk out, you know?"

Peter looked at her, studying her expression. He reached out and placed his hand gently over hers.

"I'm not your dad," he said.

She looked up, eyes slightly glassy. "I know. I just... thanks."

They sat like that for a moment—silent, but close.

Margaret returned a few minutes later, smiling softly at the sight.

After the meal, Peter helped clear the table. Liz tried to protest but he waved her off and followed Margaret into the kitchen.

As they rinsed dishes side-by-side, Margaret spoke without turning her head.

"Thank you," she said.

Peter glanced at her. "For what?"

"For being there for Liz," she said. "I know she seems independent—and she is—but she carries more than she admits. Her dad left a lot of space behind, and not the kind that's easy to talk about."

Peter was quiet for a moment. Then: "I'm not trying to fill a space. Just... be real with her."

Margaret finally looked at him. "That's exactly what she needs."

They finished the dishes in companionable silence. Margaret excused herself for the night, and Liz walked Peter to the door.