The kitchen smelled like home.
Warm fruit, sugar, and cinnamon wafted through the air as I pulled the last pie from the oven. Tulio was perched on the counter beside me, an oversized apron hanging off his tiny frame like a superhero cape. His fingers were sticky with jam as he helped stir the pot, eyes bright with curiosity.
“Okay, Chef Tulio,” I grinned, “your mission is to not spill jam all over the counter. Do you accept?”
He saluted. “Yes, ma’am. But if it accidentally falls into my mouth, I’m not responsible.”
I laughed, ruffling his already messy hair. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
He giggled and looked up at me. “Are we gonna make more pies for Uncle Nico?”
“If you think he’ll eat one.”
“He will. Only if you give it to him. He says everything tastes better when you make it.”
My heart did something strange in my chest—something tight and warm all at once. I didn’t reply. Just turned back to the stove, stirring the jam a little slower than before.
The house felt still today. After
