Noah stared at it.
“Wait. Is this what you’ve been hiding?”
Grace grinned.
“Yep.”
He held it up.
“You made this for me?”
“Obviously.”
He slipped it over his head and turned toward us.
“Well? How do I look?”
Grace tilted her head.
“Like someone who desperately needs cooking lessons.”
Noah pretended to be offended.
“Wow. I grow my hair for you, and this is the respect I get?”
She laughed.
“You’re welcome.”
Michael stepped closer and examined the apron.
“Grace, that pocket’s crooked again.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Dad! It’s my signature!”
We all burst out laughing.
Then Noah turned back toward the stove.
He picked up David’s old spatula.
“Mom, watch this.”
He slid it underneath a pancake and flipped it.
The pancake folded in half.
Grace laughed so hard she had to hold the counter.
“That one’s mine!”
Noah scraped it onto her plate.
