Her face collapsed.
I wrapped my arms around her and held her until the worst of the crying passed.
Then I opened the drawer beside our stove.
Near the back lay Frank’s old star-shaped cutter, scratched and dark from decades of Sunday breakfasts.
I mixed flour, eggs, milk, cinnamon, and chopped apples into a bowl.
My daughter watched as I poured batter into the little metal star.
“Why did Grandpa always make them this shape, Mom?”
I looked toward the two photographs resting beside the stove.
“Because someone taught him that love can remember one person and still make room for another, sweetheart.”
We sat together at the kitchen table.
My daughter bit into one of the pancakes and smiled.
For one brief moment, her laughter echoed through the room.
It was the same kind of laughter that had once terrified Frank.
And the same kind that had eventually taught him not to run.
When breakfast was over, I placed the star cutter beside the stove.
It would still be there the following Sunday.
And every Sunday after that.
Not because the grief was gone.
But because love had finally become large enough to carry it.
