“You’re welcome.”
I stepped toward him.
“Want some help?”
He shook his head.
“I’ve got it.”
So I stepped back.
For a moment, I could almost see David standing beside him.
I could almost hear his laughter.
I remembered all those Sundays when my husband had insisted that the first pancake was supposed to be a disaster.
Then Noah poured another circle of batter.
This time, he waited.
He watched the bubbles rise.
He checked the edges.
Then he carefully slipped the spatula underneath.
With one smooth movement, he flipped the pancake.
It landed perfectly.
“See, Mom?”
His face lit up.
“I did it!”
I smiled.
“I see, sweetheart.”
Grace pointed at his apron.
“Don’t get batter on my pocket.”
Noah looked down.
“That’s literally what pockets are for.”
“No,” she argued. “Pockets are for snacks.”
Michael laughed.
“She’s got a point.”
Noah shook his head.
