“I’m just buying some to support the cause,” I said, reaching for a sheet of tickets.
“Famous last words,” Maya muttered.
She wasn’t wrong.
At first I only bought one sheet.
Then I spotted a toy basket that would absolutely make one of Derek’s nieces lose her mind.
Then another.
And then, near the far end of the table, I saw it.
The baking basket.
I stopped.
Inside the clear wrapping were jars of homemade jam, pretty measuring spoons, wooden utensils, a thick recipe book, and what looked suspiciously like a sourdough starter kit.
I stared at it for a second too long.
Maya followed my gaze. “Oh no.”
“What?”
“You want that one.”
I pointed. “Look at it.”
“It’s a basket.”
“It’s a beautiful basket.”
She laughed. “You’re such a grandma.”
“I bake.”
“You aggressively bake.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is when you show up to work with homemade muffins on a Tuesday like someone’s wholesome aunt.”
I ignored her and bought another sheet of tickets.
Then another.
We moved slowly down the line dropping tickets into different buckets. I put some in for the toy baskets, some for a cooler, a couple for restaurant gift cards, but most of mine ended up split between things Derek’s family might like and the baking basket that I had already decided belonged to me spiritually.
A little girl with dark curls appeared near my elbow and stared longingly at the giant Barbie Dream House set wrapped in pink ribbon.
I crouched beside her. “You like that one?”
She nodded solemnly.
“How many tickets do you have?”
She held up three.
