Her apartment.
Her skin.
Hersounds.
I shift away. Add olive oil to the good dough.
“How come the bubbles happen?” Ben asks.
“The yeast is eating the sugar,” I explain. “And breathing out air. That’s what makes the bubbles.”
“Yeast breathes?”
“Everything breathes,piccola. Even pizza.Especiallypizza.”
Jess laughs. It’s the kind of laugh that makes me want to hear it again. “Especially pizza. I love that.”
We knead together. I show Ben how to fold and press. How to feel when the dough is ready. Jess picks it up fast. Her hands work the dough with surprising competence.
“You’ve done this before,” I observe.
“YouTube university. I watched like ten videos last night.” She glances at me. “Wanted to be useful.”
Useful. Like she hasn’t already turned my daughter’s anxiety into something manageable. Like she hasn’t made mornings easier and bedtime smoother and every damn hour of every day better since she started.
The dough tears under my hands. I’m pressing too hard.
Ben notices. “Daddy, you ripped it.”
“It’s fine. We’ll fix it.”
“Hand squeeze?” she offers.
I look at her. Five years old and trying to helpmeregulate.
Fuck me.
“Yeah,piccola. Good idea.”
I take her small hand. Do the one-two-three. Breathe with her. The dough can wait.
When we’re done, Jess has already pinched the tear closed. “All better. See? Even professionals make mistakes.”
“I’m not a professional anymore. I just yell at them now.”
“You’re Ben’s professional,” Jess says softly.
Something in my chest cracks.
And so I am.
The dough rises. We shape it. Ben wants to toss it into the air like she’s seen on TV. I explain that takes years of practice. She pouts. Jess suggests we do hand tosses together.
So now I’m standing behind Ben, guiding her hands while Jess counts. “One, two, three, toss!”
The dough rises a foot but then flops onto her hand. Ben dissolves into giggles.
We try again. And again. By the fourth attempt she’s getting the motion. Not the height. But the joy is there.
