Natalie stares at the oven like it might explode.
"Moment of truth," she says.
We pull out the tray.
Most of the cupcakes look surprisingly good.
Golden.
Puffy.
Like actual cupcakes made by people who know what they are doing.
Except one.
One of them is leaning sideways like it had a rough night.
Maddie gasps in delight.
"They are perfect," she declares. "Except the leaning one. That one just wants to be friends with the cupcake next to it."
Natalie high fives her.
"We are culinary geniuses," Natalie says.
"When we finish them," Maddie says, "they will be Sparkle Power Cupcakes."
"That sounds dangerous," I say.
"They make you strong like broccoli," Maddie says, "and happy.”
"Hard to argue with that," I say.
Daisy sits beside her with faded pink whiskers and hopeful eyes.
Maddie hands the dog a tiny crumb.
"You can be the official taste tester," she tells her.
Natalie laughs and bumps her shoulder into mine.
"See," she says quietly. "We survived."
I look at the flour covered kitchen.
At the pink faced dog.
At my daughter proudly frosting her cupcakes.
At Natalie standing beside them both with flour in her hair and a bright, unapologetic smile.
And I realize something simple.
This house used to feel like Maddie and me against the world.
Now it feels like a team.
A messy team.
