"No, silly." She giggled, swatting his shoulder. "MiMi let me help make cookies! I put in the chocolate chips ALL BY MYSELF."
"All by yourself? That's very impressive. Were there any left for the cookies, or did they all end up in your mouth?"
"Some went in my mouth," Daisy admitted. "But only a few. Maybe ten."
"Ten is very reasonable."
I watched them together — my daughter chattering about her day, Hunter listening like every word was the most important thing he'd ever heard — and felt my chest squeeze.
He'd shown up. Every single day since February. For school pickups and bedtime stories and Saturday morning cartoons. For scraped knees and bad dreams and endless questions about dinosaurs.
Daisy didn't call him Daddy. Not yet. But last week she'd asked if Hunter could come to her preschool's father-daughter breakfast, and the look on his face had been worth everything.
"You coming, Mama?" Daisy called.
"Right behind you, baby."
Inside, the house smelled like cookies and fried chicken. Mama had the table set with her best dishes — the ones she'd inherited from her mother, white with tiny blue flowers around the edges.
"There you are." Mama pulled me into a hug, then held me at arm's length to study my face. "You look tired. Are you sleeping enough?"
"I'm fine, Mama."
"She's been at the bakery since five AM," Hunter said, settling Daisy into her booster seat. "Ruby's got her working harder than any ranch hand."
"It's worth it." I took my usual spot at the table, between Hunter and Daisy. "Pearl said another few months and I'll know enough to run the place on my own. I’m not sure that’s true, but I’m loving every minute."
"That's my girl." Mama beamed. "Your grandmother would be so proud."
The mention of Grandma landed differently these days. For years, the memory had been tangled up with guilt — the funeral I'd missed, the calls I hadn't returned, all the ways I'd failed when I was drowning in Houston. But lately, when I stood at the bakery's marble counter rolling out pie dough the way she'd taught me, the grief had started to feel more like gratitude.
She'd given me part of herself. The love of flour and sugar, the patience to wait for dough to rise, the understanding that feeding people was its own kind of love. I was just finally ready to receive it.
"Can I say grace?" Daisy asked.
"Of course, baby."
We all bowed our heads. Daisy clasped her hands together with the gravity of a tiny preacher.
"Dear God, thank you for fried chicken and cookies and Mr. Bun-Bun. Thank you for MiMi and Mama and Hunter." She paused, then added in a rush: "And please let the triceratops be real somewhere because they're the best dinosaurs. Amen."
"Amen," we echoed, and I met Hunter's eyes across the table. He was grinning, that dimple showing, and he mouthedI love you.
I love you too,I mouthed back.
After dinner, Daisy dragged Hunter outside to see the caterpillar she'd found on the porch railing while Mama and I did the dishes.
"He's a wonderful man," Mama said, handing me a plate to dry. "I wasn't sure at first — a Massey, the money, that reputation of his. But he's proven himself."
"He has."
"He asked me a question last week." Mama kept her eyes on the sink. "When you were working late and he brought Daisy over for dinner."
My pulse kicked. "What did he ask?"
"For my blessing." Mama turned to look at me, eyes shining. "To marry you."
The plate nearly slipped from my hands. "Mama—"
