I had not opened that recipe in years.

As we measured flour, I realized that the little things I associated with my daughter did not have to disappear from Emma’s life simply because the truth had changed.

We burned the first tray.

Emma laughed when the kitchen filled with a mildly alarming smell, and we made another.

I thought of Eleanor standing beside me, raising one eyebrow at the disaster.

For the first time in a long time, the memory made me smile before it made me cry.