“But then where do you go?”
Claire smiled.
“I don’t need your mommy’s place.”
She tapped Ari gently on the nose.
“I want my own.”
The next morning, Claire found an old recipe tin hidden in the back of one of our kitchen cabinets.
Inside were Sarah’s handwritten recipes.
Right on top:
Blueberry muffins.
Claire looked at me.
“Should we?”
I knew exactly what she meant.
We baked them together.
Ari cracked eggs with enough enthusiasm to cover half the counter.
Claire got flour in her hair.
One batch rose unevenly.
Two muffins burned around the edges.
Ari declared them perfect.
Then I did something I had avoided for years.
I played Sarah’s lullaby.
Her voice floated through the kitchen.
For the first time, I didn’t leave the room.
It hurt.
Of course it hurt.
But underneath the grief was something else.
Gratitude.
Ari set three napkins on the table.
Then she stopped.
She climbed down, picked up Sarah’s photograph, and placed it beside us.
Then she added a fourth napkin.
