I told her everything, gently, because there was no point hiding it. Mom looked at Delphine, at the empty Yukon, and then at me, and for a moment I thought she might cry. Instead, she walked straight to the band’s tailgate and began cutting brisket onto plates herself, humming a little tune. “Well, you might as well do it right,” she said. “Nobody leaves my table hungry.” Delphine, ashamed, stood nearby and finally whispered an apology.

Delphine admitted that her husband had lost his job in the spring, and money had been tight. She had meant to take only a little, but the trays had piled up, and she told herself nobody would miss them. Mom listened, set down her knife, and said she understood being embarrassed about money, but taking was not the answer. She asked Delphine to come to the church kitchen on Monday and learn how to cook a big meal from scratch.

The musicians ate until the plates were clean, and the young bassist hugged my mother and said it was the best supper of her life. The servers were fed next, and then my parents and Colby’s relatives gathered around the leftover brisket for midnight sandwiches. Colby held my hand through it all. When he whispered, “I will always stand beside you,” I realized I had my answer, long before I needed it.

Delphine arrived at the church kitchen that Monday with her own apron, and she learned to knead dough under my mother’s watchful eye. Within a month, she was cooking for the Homemakers Club’s potlucks, and Colby’s uncle found a new job in the fall. Every August, on our anniversary, Mom hosts a supper for the band, and Delphine brings rolls she makes herself, with steam fogging her glasses.