By Olivia Bennett • February 28, 2026 • Share
The young man on my porch had hair the color of bruised plums and blackened fingernails. In my mind, he was the collapse of the country. Turns out, I was the one who had fallen apart.
I hadn’t wanted the food delivery app. My daughter insisted after Alice passed. “One click, Dad. Hot meal.”
So I clicked. Half an hour later, he arrived, standing there in a rain-soaked hoodie, holding a paper bag that smelled like nostalgia and longing. A scent that pulled memories of Alice’s cooking from a dusty drawer in my mind.
His fingers, tapping against the side of the bag, were stained with ink, or maybe it was just dirt. I couldn’t tell. I imagined stories of his life, the places he’d been, the struggles he’d faced. Perhaps he was the future of this country or the future I feared.
He handed over the meal with a nod, his eyes meeting mine briefly. There was a question in his gaze, or perhaps a reflection of my own uncertainty. “Thank you,” I muttered, clutching the bag like a lifeline.
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