Ethan was arguing that he deserved a chocolate bar for every successful pancake.
The kitchen was noisy, messy, and full of life.
And I understood something I wished I had known years earlier.
Sometimes love arrives as a grand sacrifice, like a boy growing his hair for months so his best friend can have a wig.
Sometimes it arrives as a crooked pocket, made by a girl who wants to remember her mother.
Sometimes it arrives as an apology from a frightened father who learns that protecting his child also means allowing her to live.
And sometimes love is nothing more complicated than an old wooden spatula passed from one generation to the next.
I looked around the table at the three people I loved, then at the empty chair where Daniel used to sit.
For a moment, I imagined him complaining about the pancakes.
I imagined him stealing the last piece of chocolate from Lily’s pocket and blaming Ethan.
