My brain said no. My mouth, apparently, had other plans entirely. "If you're sure it's not too much trouble."
Her smile widened, erasing any lingering uncertainty from her expression. "No trouble at all. Sarah, would you like to help me set the table?"
"Yes!" Sarah shed her jacket in a heap and bounded toward the kitchen like she'd lived here her entire life, like this was the most natural thing in the world.
I stood awkwardly in the doorway between the living room and kitchen, feeling more colossal and out of place than ever before. Emma moved through her small kitchen with easy grace, pulling bowls from cabinets, stirring the pot on the stove, checking something in the oven. She'd choreographed this space perfectly over time. I'd have knocked over at least three things by now.
Her home was warm in a way my cabin had never been. Not just the temperature from the oven—the very essence of it. Soft yellow curtains filtered the late afternoon light into somethinggolden and gentle. A patterned cloth covered the small kitchen table, anchored by a tiny ceramic vase holding a single fading purple aster.
Books were stacked neatly on living room shelves, a woven blanket draped invitingly over the back of the couch, a cluster of framed photos on the mantel that I couldn't quite bring myself to examine closely.
It was lived-in. Cared for. Intentional. It spoke of someone who created comfort naturally, who nurtured a space into something far more than walls and a roof and functional furniture. My cabin was a shelter, a place to eat, sleep, and store gear. It served its purpose. That was all I'd ever asked of it.
This was a home.
"Uncle C, look!" Sarah held up mismatched but cheerful ceramic plates. "These ones have little flowers painted on them!"
"I see that."
"Our plates are just... plate-colored."
"Beige is a color."
"B… beige is boring."
Emma laughed softly from the stove, ladling fragrant chili into a large serving bowl. "Beige has its place in the world. Very practical color."
"That's what Uncle C always says about everything. 'Practical.'" Sarah made exaggerated air quotes with her small fingers.
"Practical keeps you alive," I muttered defensively.
"Practical is definitely important," Emma agreed with diplomatic grace. "But sometimes impractical things are nice too. Pretty plates don't make food taste better, but they make eating more fun."
The rich, savory smell of browning meat and warm spices filled the entire cabin, a smell my place never knew. Mine smelled of pine and wood smoke and beeswax and sometimes,faintly, of honey from the harvest. This was different. This was the smell of care. The smell of belonging.
Emma called us to the table a few minutes later. She'd set three places with her mismatched flower plates, the pot of steaming chili centered on a woven trivet alongside a basket of golden cornbread and a bowl of crisp green salad with cherry tomatoes.
Sarah's eyes went completely round as she climbed into her chair. "Uncle C, look at all the food!"
"I see it, sweetheart."
She turned to Emma, her tone utterly matter-of-fact, as if commenting on something as mundane as the weather outside. "We always eat cereal and takeout."
The comment landed like a heavy stone directly in the center of my barely maintained food habits.
Thank you, Sarah, for that detailed public account of my parenting failures.
It wasn't an accusation. Just a six-year-old's honest observation of fact. But it laid bare my inadequacy in the starkest possible terms. I provided calories. Emma provided a meal.
My face heated with shame. I stared fixedly at my empty plate, unable to meet anyone's eyes. "Cereal is easy. And efficient."
"Cereal is perfectly fine sometimes," Emma said gently, spooning a generous portion of chili into Sarah's bowl. Her eyes met mine across the table, no pity in them, no judgment. Just understanding. Somehow, that was worse. I could have borne judgment more easily. "But everyone deserves a warm meal now and then. Even very practical people."
"This is better than cereal," Sarah announced loudly after her first enthusiastic bite.
"Thank you, sweetheart. That's very kind."
"Can you teach Uncle C to cook real food?"
