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Gwyneth isn’t the type who’d forget about her father just because he’s in a coma. But that’s what it seems like recently. She’s stopped going into his room, removed her picture with him from the entrance hall of the house, and never talks about him anymore. She slipped just now by mentioning him. “I’ll fix something,” I say. “You don’t have to. I’ll cook pasta when I’m done.” “It’ll be faster if you bake and I cook at the same time.” I’m already in the kitchen, searching through the cupboard for what I’ll need. “I didn’t know you could cook.” She stares at me over her shoulder. “I’ve lived alone for long enough to learn how.” “So it’s only out of necessity? You don’t enjoy it?” “Not particularly.” “What do you enjoy then?” “Work.” She rolls her eyes as she scoops the batter into the small cupcake liners. “Work isn’t a hobby.” “It can be.” I chop the tomatoes fast and she stares at me with weird fascination. “Wow, you’re good with a knife,” she says because she easily gets distracted an