"I know that," she agrees. And she knows he needs to say as much, too, if only because Glenn's memory casts a long shadow over them both. He was a friend to Daryl, one of their group in a way that's bound by sweat and blood. Her hands have settled around her cup, one finger tapping the surface. It's the only outflow of nerves she'll allow herself.

"After Negan killed him," and though it comes out relatively easily, the shadow that crosses her face suggests it takes effort, "I thought that was it. I wasn't interested in anything except remembering Glenn and raising our boy. Had to, uh -" a self-conscious little laugh, looking down at her wine - "tell a few guys as much. They got the message, though."

But that was then. That was people who hadn't spent years fighting and getting injured and living - despite all odds - with her. Communities she'd visited, some she'd even lived at, but where she hadn't belonged the way she does here, in this kitchen.

"I did a lot of thinking before I came to you." She doesn't pray, exactly, but she imagines conversations with Glenn, murmurs her half out loud sometimes, and it feels similar. "I don't want you to try and be Glenn. I don't think you could if you wanted to - and that's not an insult, Daryl, I couldn't do it, either. But I think if he could have an opinion on this...I think he'd want us to be happy. To remember him, and love that memory, but - to go on living."