And he always tried to make the pancakes exactly the way his father had.
“Noah?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Is this why you’ve been making pancakes?”
He looked confused.
“Because I like them?”
I shook my head gently.
“Because Dad used to make them.”
Noah stared at the skillet.
For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer.
Then he whispered:
“Kind of.”
I stepped closer.
“Do you remember how he did it?”
“Some of it.”
He tried flipping the pancake.
Too soon.
The batter spread across the pan.
Noah sighed.
“I keep messing them up.”
I reached for a towel.
“Everybody messes up pancakes.”
He shook his head.
“I’ve been trying to get them like Dad’s.”
My heart ached.
All those Sundays.
All those mornings when I’d sat at the table answering emails or reading while Noah cooked.
I’d thought he was learning a new hobby.
