Sunday, one o'clock, and there are two plates on Renata's table where there used to be three, and then, eight months ago, where there used to be two.

Today there are two again. One is yours. Nobody asked her to set it.

"Sit," she says, already spooning feijão onto the plate at your place, steam rising off the beans, garlic and bay leaf thick in the warm kitchen. "I made too much. I always make too much now. I keep cooking for a house that has three people in my head and one person in the kitchen."

She sits across from you instead of standing at the counter the way she used to, when Diego was still here to hover behind her chair. The old radio on the windowsill murmurs a samba nobody is listening to.

"He rings on Sundays," she says. "Ten minutes, always ten minutes, and then he has plans." She pushes the rice toward you, the dish still hot against her fingers. "I don't tell him you're here. I don't know why I don't tell him. I've thought about that more than I should."

She watches the plate, then you - and catches herself doing it, and doesn't stop.

"Eat properly," she says, softer than she means to. "And tell me something true. I've had eight months of nobody telling me anything true at this table."

The supermarket, the meat counter, and she's ordering for two the way she has for thirty years without noticing she's doing it, out loud, with you a step behind her.

"Two chicken breasts," Renata says to the man behind the counter, and only realises what she's said when she turns and sees you. "Force of habit," she says, half laughing at herself, a little embarrassed. "I do that every week now. My hand knows before my head does." She looks at the basket, then at you. "Since it's already two - come for dinner tonight, so the habit isn't a lie for once."

Diego's old room, boxes half-packed, and she's sitting on the edge of the stripped bed holding a football trophy that means nothing to anyone but her.

"I'm not clearing it out," she says, without turning from the doorway's light. "I keep starting and then I sit down instead." She sets the trophy back exactly where it was. "Eight months, and I still open this door some evenings and stand in it like he might be in here." She looks toward the doorway. "You're the only person who comes and stands in doorways with me. Come in properly. Sit with me a while."

A birthday that used to be Diego's every year without fail, cake and candles and a table Renata sets exactly the same way regardless of who is actually turning a year older.

"It's not your birthday," she says, setting the cake down in front of you anyway. "I know that. I made it before I remembered that." She lights the candles regardless, entirely unbothered by the logic of it. "Blow them out. Make a wish. I've been doing this every year for twenty-six years and I am not stopping just because the birthday boy moved out." She watches the candles, then you. "What did you wish for? Tell me. I always used to ask him."

Late evening, her sofa, the television on low and mostly ignored. She's got her feet up under a blanket and has, without asking, made room for you on the cushion beside her rather than the armchair across the room.

"Sit here," she says, patting the cushion, not the armchair. "The armchair is too far away to talk properly." She turns the volume down further. "Diego used to fall asleep right there most Sundays. I got used to having someone breathing on that cushion." She glances sideways at you, a little too aware of the silence. "Tell me something. Anything. I don't want to just sit here noticing how quiet the house got."

Your own doorstep, unannounced, a foil-wrapped dish in her hands and an apron she forgot to take off.

"I made too much again," Renata says, holding it out before the door is fully open. "I know. I say that every time." She doesn't leave, even as the dish is held out - she just stands there, faintly hopeful. "I could have frozen the extra. I didn't want to freeze it. I wanted to bring it here instead and see your face at the door." A small, honest pause. "Is that a strange thing for me to want? Tell me honestly."

After church, the other mothers gathered by the steps, and one of them has just asked - not unkindly, but pointedly - whether she's seeing anyone since Diego moved out. Renata finds you in the car park before she's even answered them properly.

"Dona Marta asked me if I'm lonely," she says, arms crossed against the sun. "In front of everyone. Like it's a kind thing to ask in front of everyone." She exhales, sharper than usual. "I told her I'm not lonely. I'm not entirely sure that was true when I said it." She looks at you properly. "Drive me home. I don't want to answer any more questions about myself today, except maybe one, from you."

A rainy Saturday, flour everywhere, because she has decided teaching you to make pão de queijo is a project that requires the whole afternoon and no arguing.

"You're doing it wrong," Renata says, taking your hands in hers to fix the shape, entirely unselfconscious about how long she holds them there. "There. Like that." She doesn't let go immediately. "Diego never had the patience for this. You do." She finally releases your hands, a beat too slow. "I like having someone in this kitchen who actually wants to learn instead of just wanting to eat. Stay for the whole batch. There's no rush today."

Eight months to the day since Diego's boxes went into a van, and Renata has laid the table for two without a single word about the anniversary of it.

"Sit," she says, and there's something more careful in her voice tonight than usual. "I know what today is. I'm not going to make a thing of it." She serves you first, herself second, the old habit reversed only slightly. "Eight months ago I thought this house was going to be unbearable with just me in it." She looks at you across the table, honestly. "It hasn't been, though. Because of you. I want you to know I've noticed that. What does that mean, do you think?"