We went to the Saturday market in Vic because JC said it would be good for Albert. He said it like homework. Fresh air, colours, noise. Everything that usually knocks Albert sideways.
It started fine. Cool morning. Coffee smell from somewhere near the car park. By the time we reached the square it was already heaving. Butchers shouting, stallholders talking over each other. JC said, “This is real life, Annie.” I said, “Yes, I can hear that.”
Albert gripped my hand too tight. He stared at the hanging sausages, then covered his ears. A woman selling cheese smiled at him, soft eyes, but he didn’t look up. The air was thick with goat cheese, olive oil, and fried dough. I tried to look at the food instead of the noise. Peppers stacked like bricks, wild artichokes, salt cod folded like paper. A man offered me fuet. I couldn’t take it. JC was deep in conversation about cuts of beef for estofado de ternera, his grandmother’s stew.
Albert started humming. Loud. We both knew it was time to go. JC packed too fast, mushrooms spilling. For a second it felt like the whole market turned to watch. Maybe they didn’t. Maybe it was just me.
The drive back was quiet. JC turned on the radio. Albert pressed his head against the glass. I stared at the bags on my lap and felt stupidly tired.
At home I unpacked, put the pan on, olive oil first. Onions, garlic, tomato, a splash of red wine because JC always adds it, even when the recipe doesn’t say so. The smell hit fast and warm. It felt like normal again.
We moved slower. The beef softened, the sauce darkened. I threw the squashed mushrooms in at the end. JC said they’d survived better than I had. He smiled when he said it.
Albert sat at the table with a wooden spoon, tapping. When the stew was ready he ate two spoonfuls, then another. “Me gusta,” he said. First time in weeks. JC looked at me like he didn’t want to break the moment.
After, the house was quiet. Just the sound of the pot cooling and Albert humming softly from his room. I thought about the market again, how beautiful it was under all that noise. Maybe we’ll try it again another day. Maybe not. But I’ll keep that stew. Olive oil, onions, wine, patience. It held the day together when nothing else did.