“You people are impossible.”
And while the children argued about whether pancakes counted as pocket snacks, I quietly set four plates on the table.
For the first time in a long while, our kitchen was filled with the kind of laughter I remembered from before David died.
It wasn’t exactly the same.
It never would be.
But it was warm.
It was happy.
And it was ours.
I looked at Noah standing in his blue apron.
Then at Grace, laughing beside him.
And finally at Michael, who was watching his daughter with an expression of quiet pride.
Months earlier, I had believed that the most meaningful thing my son could give his friend was a wig.
I had been wrong.
The wig was beautiful.
It gave Grace something she had lost during treatment.
But the sewing machine gave her something different.
It gave her a way to feel connected to her mother.
