It was the only time in my whole life I’d ever seen her kitchen cold. No smells. No flour on the counter. No timer ticking. She just sat in Grandpa’s armchair by the window with a cup of tea she never drank.
Ezoic
Then, one Saturday, I came over and found her at the counter again. Making her own wedding cake recipe. The one her mother had made for her and Grandpa in 1971. Three layers. Vanilla sponge with raspberry filling and buttercream.
“Who’s it for?” I asked.
“Him,” she said quietly. “It’s our anniversary today. Fifty-two years.”
She baked the whole thing. Frosted it. Decorated it with little sugar roses. Then she cut one slice, put it on her good china plate, and set it on the kitchen table across from her.
We ate the rest of it together, the two of us, sitting on the back porch swing watching the sun go down over the lemon tree.
