JACQUELINEThe smell of pepperoni filled the living room, mixing with the faint scent of hand soap from the cardboard box I’d just opened. I sat cross-legged on the couch, biting into a steaming slice. The crust was thin, crunchy at the edges, and cheesy at the center.“This is so good,” I mumbled around a bite. “But nothing like the one I had at Blair’s.”Mom raised an eyebrow and sipped from her glass of Coke. “Better or worse?”“Different,” I said, licking grease from my fingers. “It was homemade. Kind of rustic, you know? Thick crust, a little uneven. They used whatever they had—onions, fresh tomatoes, canned mushrooms. Nothing fancy, but it was perfect. They don’t have much, but somehow, they make it work.”Mom chewed slowly, her eyes distant and thoughtful.“There’s something kind of special about that,” I added. “I don’t know. Being able to make something warm out of what little you have.”She gave a small nod. “Sometimes it’s not about how much you have, but what you do with i
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