I laughed softly.
“Grandma is remembering the second batch.”
Mom smiled through tears.
“The first batch was terrible.”
“She forgot the sugar,” I added. “Then she insisted nobody would notice.”
Dad chuckled.
“Your father ate three anyway.”
“They tasted like warm bread,” I admitted.
Everyone laughed.
Even Ari.
One story led to another.
Sarah singing off-key while cleaning the kitchen.
Sarah crying at animal rescue commercials.
Sarah talking to Ari while she was still pregnant because she believed babies recognized voices before birth.
For the first time since Sarah died, we didn’t avoid her name.
We brought her back into the room.
Claire never interrupted.
She listened.
She laughed at the funny stories.
She cried during the tender ones.
Eventually, Ari climbed onto her lap.
Claire gently wrapped an arm around her.
“So…” Ari whispered. “You still love me?”
“Very much,” Claire whispered.
“Even if Mommy stays?”
Claire kissed the top of her head.
“I hope she always stays.”
Ari looked confused.
“But where do you go?”
Claire smiled.
“I don’t need your mommy’s place.” She tapped Ari gently on the nose. “I’d like my own place.”
The next morning, I found Claire in the kitchen holding an old recipe tin.
“I found this in the back of the cabinet,” she muttered.
Inside were Sarah’s handwritten recipes.
On top was blueberry muffins.
Claire looked at me.
“What do you think?”
I understood.
She wasn’t trying to replace Sarah.
She was inviting her back into our home.
We baked together.
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