Flour dusted the counters.
Ari cracked eggs with far more enthusiasm than accuracy.
Claire laughed when batter splashed onto her sleeve.
Half the muffins rose crooked.
One burned around the edges.
“They’re perfect,” Ari declared.
“They’re perfect.”
I reached for my phone.
For the first time in years, I played Sarah’s lullaby without walking out of the room.
Her voice floated through the kitchen.
It still hurt.
Ari set three napkins on the breakfast table.
Then she paused.
She climbed down, picked up Sarah’s photograph from the windowsill, and gently placed a fourth napkin beneath it.
It still hurt.
Claire carried over the plate of muffins.
She chose the least-burned one and placed it beside the photograph.
Ari smiled. Then she slipped her little hand into Claire’s.
Not because she’d forgotten her mother.
Because she finally knew she never had to.
She slipped her little hand into Claire’s.
I looked around the kitchen.
Blueberry muffins. Sarah’s lullaby. Claire’s gentle smile. My daughter’s laughter.
Four places.
One family.
No one was replaced.
Love had simply grown large enough to hold us all.
No one was replaced.
