Sarah looked down at her and tried to smile, though it came out more like a grimace. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Maybe just a little hungry.”
Hungry?
Something uncomfortable twisted in my stomach.
Then I remembered I’d sent Mrs. Pearson and Gianna home. No one here who could cook.
I looked from Lily to Sarah, weighing options.
“Daddy cooks.” Lily’s voice was still tentative—but certain.
The words felt like I’d been struck. Cook? I hadn’t cooked in nearly two years, hadn’t been able to stand in the kitchen without my hands shaking. Hadn’t touched a knife or a pan or any of the tools that used to bring me joy.
But Lily was looking at me with trust in her eyes, and Sarah was standing there hollow-eyed and hungry, and before I could talk myself out of it, I heard myself speak.
“I’ll see what I can make.”
Sarah’s head came up fast, and she stared at me like I’d just announced I could fly. “You?”
“What about me?”
“You don’t cook.” She said it like I’d claimed the sky was green.
“Is that so?” I raised an eyebrow. Why was she so certain?
I looked at Lily. “Want to help Daddy cook for Ms. Sarah?”
She nodded immediately and started moving toward the kitchen, then stopped. She looked at Sarah with an expression I couldn’t quite read, then rushed to the couch where her headphones lay. She picked them up carefully and carried them back to Sarah, holding them out like an offering.
My throat went tight again. Those headphones were Lily’s security blanket, the thing she used when the world got too loud. And she was giving them to Sarah, recognizing somehow that Sarah needed comfort more than she did.
“There should be spare clothes upstairs,” I said, my voice thick with emotion. “Help yourself to whatever fits.”
Sarah took the headphones with shaking hands and nodded.
I extended my hand toward Lily, and she took it without hesitation. That simple gesture of trust nearly undid me, but I held it together and led her toward the kitchen.
The memory of Joana dying attacked my mind every time I tried to enter the kitchen. Where I’d been cooking while she drove our daughter to ballet class and never came home. Where the smell of burnt rice had haunted me for months.
But tonight I flipped on the battery-powered lanterns and pulled out an apron from the drawer. The fabric felt strange in my hands—both familiar and foreign. I tied it around my waist and found a smaller one for Lily, helping her into it.
Old memories tried to surface, and for once, I let them. Joana laughing as she flicked flour at me. Lily sitting on the counter stealing tastes. Happy memories—not the nightmare that had replaced them.
I stood and looked at the stove—and my hands stayed steady.
The knife felt natural in my grip when I pulled it from the block, and I started with something simple. Pasta, vegetables, ingredients that wouldn’t require complicated techniques. Lily washed tomatoes in the sink, humming under her breath, and I found myself smiling at the sound.
She helped with small tasks, following my quiet instructions, and it felt like breathing after holding my breath for too long. The rhythm of chopping and stirring, the familiar dance of measuring and tasting. My hands remembered what my mind had tried to forget.
Movement in the doorway made me look up. Sarah stood there in dry clothes slightly too big for her, probably Gianna’s. Her hair was still damp but pulled back, and the bruise on her face looked even worse in the better light.
I felt suddenly self-conscious, standing there with flour on my apron and a wooden spoon in my hand. Like I’d been caught doing something private, something vulnerable.
But she didn’t say anything, just watched with something unreadable in her eyes.
The pasta finished, and I plated it at the kitchen island. Lily climbed onto a stool, and Sarah sat beside her, and I joined them with my own plate.
Sarah took a bite, and her eyes went wide.
