4338.210 · July 29, 2018 AD
Pilgrims of the Ordinary
Pancakes sizzle in Noah's mother's cast-iron pan. A Skype call bridges the ocean to Lisa and Will's kitchen in Salt Lake City, where Eli is on sharp form and Jerome's careful tie selection becomes immediate ammunition. Charles mis-buttons his shirt with spectacular commitment. Millie mounts her weekly campaign to attend church and is, once again, denied. Greta moves through all of it — flipping, refereeing, redirecting — until the front door clicks shut and the car pulls away, and she begins the quiet transformation from kitchen apron to chapel pew.
Breakfast erupts around the pancake stack. The Skype call connects and Lisa's face fills the laptop screen, bright and warm from Salt Lake City. Will waves from behind the stove. Eli, several months into his stay with Lisa and Will, provides running commentary sharp enough to make Charles nearly knock the syrup bottle off the counter twice. Jerome reappears with his tie perfectly knotted, and Eli identifies the reason for his brother's unusual grooming standards with the surgical precision of a sibling who knows exactly where to aim. Greta intervenes before the teasing can do real damage, invoking Relief Society seating arrangements as her weapon of choice.
Noah steals a strip of pancake from beneath the foil. The table fills. Syrup finds improbable surfaces. Laughter carries across continents and through laptop speakers until the call ends and the screen goes dark. For a moment, Greta notices the contact list — Luke: offline. Paul: offline. The unease settles briefly at the base of her neck before she closes the lid and turns back to the dishes.
Then the leaving begins. Millie stations herself in the hallway with the unwavering conviction that this Sunday will finally be the one where the family relents. Her tail drums the wall. Her eyes blaze with hope. Jerome guides her gently away from the door. Charles detonates from his bedroom in a state of spectacular disarray — tie structurally unsound, one shoe dangling, coat flapping. He tears across the front path and collapses into the back seat. Jerome follows in dignified contrast.
Greta pulls the front door shut and glances back through the frosted glass at Millie's silhouette, still stationed at the window, still convinced. She slides into the passenger seat. Noah reverses down the driveway with the calm of a man who has done this a thousand times. The chapel appears ahead — modest, unassuming, familiar. And somewhere between the seatbelt unfastening and the handbag clasp clicking shut, Greta gathers herself into her Sunday self: wife, mother, Sister Smith. The leaving is complete. The arriving begins.
