I had spent three years worrying that Ethan might be forgetting his father.
I had never considered that he might be trying to remember him in ways I couldn’t see.
That evening, I found Ethan in the kitchen with flour on his sweatshirt.
“What are you doing?”
“Pancakes.”
“For dinner?”
“Why not?”
I smiled.
“Fair argument.”
He had pulled an old wooden spatula from the drawer.
Its handle was chipped, and one side was darkened from years of use.
I recognized it immediately.
Daniel had used that spatula every Sunday morning.
He had a habit of burning the first pancake and insisting he was testing the pan. He always made the second one too thick, the third one too small, and the fourth one perfectly round.
He would then announce that he had finally mastered the recipe.
I used to roll my eyes at him.
Now, I would have given anything to hear him make that ridiculous announcement one more time.
