It’s messy work, but I love it. It’s the one thing that never fails to remind me of Mom.
She died right before I hit middle school. It still feels as tragic now as it did back then.
Just shy of hitting her thirty-fifth birthday, cancer stole her away from us.
She’d fought hard, tried her best to keep going to save Dad and me the pain of having to bury her so damn young, but illnesses never care about your feelings or the scars they leave behind once they finally take the person you love from this Earth.
I glance around the kitchen as I tip the dough out of its bowl and onto the freshly powdered counter.
Muscle memory helps me find the old rolling pin in the bottom cabinet by the oven.
The ghosts of my childhood rise as I turn on the oven and roll out my dough with my mom’s favorite pin.
Her teaching me how to carefully cut out shapes as Dad snuck spoonfuls of dough behind our backs and pretended he wasn’t, me laughing as they playfully argued over who got the first cookie straight out of the oven.
Sometimes I wonder what my life could’ve been like if my mom never passed, if my dad never buried himself in his job to escape his own grief. It’s hard to imagine, but some days I like to believe we’d still be doing this together as a family.
The oven timer dings just as the sound of the front door creaks open and voices echo through the house. I jump, heart leaping into my throat, and for a moment I completely freeze in place.
“Hello?” a voice calls out. “Anyone home?”
Flour dust streaks the back of my hand as I swipe my phone off the counter and flip it over.
My hand shakes slightly as my thumb flies across the screen, already moving to call the cops when a text suddenly flashes across the screen.
Hey, Kiddo. Thought about it and you’re right. My friends will be popping by in about an hour. See you soon XOXO.
I press a hand against my chest and laugh quietly as my breathing slows down.
Well, at least I don’t have to call the cops…
Grabbing a dish towel to wipe my hands off, I step out of the kitchen, brushing a loose strand of dark hair back from my face, and freeze all over again.
Three men stand in the entryway, shaking the dusting of a light dusting snow from their shoulders.
Behind them, just outside the doorway flakes gently fall from the grey sky.
One by one they stamp their boots against the inside mat, shrugging their bags off their shoulders and setting them down next to mine.
For a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe.
The first man has dark hair threaded with silver at the temples.
His frame is wide, taking up the most space out of the three of them.
His mouth, unsmiling, tugs down slightly until his gaze lands on me.
Even then, he flashes me just the faintest quirk at the corner of his lips, like smiles are precious things he doesn’t give away often.
The second one is taller with nearly jet black hair that falls past his ears.
He’s a little leaner and more athletic than the first man, with sharp cheekbones and a jaw that looks like it’s been carved out of stone.
He slips out of his coat and tosses it onto the rack next to the door with a kind of easy confidence.
His mouth tugs up into a small, polite smile when his gray eyes land on me.
The last one lingers near the door, tugging off a knit beanie.
