Chapter 14 - The Next Generation
Five years after that first stormy winter in Hyattsville, our kitchen smelled of cinnamon, melted butter, and the sweet, messy chaos of flour sprinkled across the countertops by two small, determined hands.
Our daughter, Maya—named after my mother, with her grandmother’s stubborn dark eyes and a laugh that could fill a room—stood on a wooden step stool by the island, holding a wooden spoon twice the size of her forearm.
"Is the dough ready, Mommy?" she asked, her nose smudged with white flour from ear to ear.
"Almost, sweetheart," I said, kneeling beside her to help guide the heavy ceramic bowl as she folded the yeast into the flour mixture.
My mother sat at the oak table nearby, watching us with a soft, knowing smile as she stitched a button onto one of Maya’s school cardigans. Julian walked in through the back door, shaking the autumn rain off his jacket, holding a fresh batch of herbs he had just clipped from the garden box outside.
He leaned down, kissed the top of Maya’s head, and then pressed a warm, quick kiss to the back of my neck as I stood up from the stool.
May you like
"Smells like heaven in here," Julian murmured, setting the rosemary and thyme on the counter.
"It smells like real life," I said, looking around the bright, sunlit kitchen where every single surface had a story, a scratch, or a memory attached to it—none of them borrowed, none of them rented, and all of them earned.
