From myself, but she doesn’t need to know that.
We head into the pantry, and my chest tightens a little at the memory of my flour avalanche and Silas catching me on the floor.
“Okay,” I announce, pushing up my sleeves. “We’re going to make this make sense. Deal?”
Sadie salutes me with her crayon. “Yes, chef.”
Welp, I definitely love her.
We spend the next hour shifting things around.
I put the baking ingredients together on one shelf, pastas and grains on another, snacks within Sadie’s reach.
“Approved snacks,” I tell her.
She solemnly agrees, then smuggles a granola bar into her pocket like we’re in a spy movie.
We toss out three expired mystery cans and one jar of something that might have been pickles in a past life.
“This is fun,” Sadie declares, handing me a box.
“You’re a strange kid,” I reply affectionately.
She beams. “Daddy says that too.”
“Daddy’s not wrong.”
Boone wanders in once to refill his coffee, takes in the reorganized shelves with a slow sweep of his gaze, and nods once.
“This is better,” he says.
My heart does an unnecessary little flip at the quiet approval.
“It’ll help me keep track of what we’re low on,” I state, aiming for professional. “Less waste.”
“Good,” he replies. “We can use all the help we can get with that.”
His eyes flick to Sadie, who’s perched on a lower shelf, stacking cans as blocks.
“You helping?”
She nods so hard her ponytail whips. “We’re organizing the sacred pantry.”
He chuckles, the barest sound, but it’s there. “Looks like you’re doing a good job.”
She glows.
He gives me another of those short, meaningful nods and disappears back toward his office.
The entire exchange is maybe thirty seconds.
I spend the next thirty minutes thinking about it.
Ugh.
By mid-morning, the kitchen is prepped, the menu for the week roughly plotted in my head, and the pantry is officially less of a crime scene. Sadie’s coloring at the table while I scribble notes on the back of an old invoice.
Farm fresh eggs.
