A quiet, wistful smile spread across his weathered face as he took the container.

“That was always her very best recipe,” he murmured warmly.

“You talk like you actually know her,” I scoffed, folding my arms against the damp chill.

His brief smile disappeared entirely, replaced by a quiet grief that made him look empty inside.

“I know her cooking pretty well, kiddo,” he replied, keeping his eyes fixed on the plastic lid.

His calm, familiar way of speaking only fed the bitter fire of resentment that stayed with me all through my youth.

As the years went by, I graduated from high school, got a job, and moved into my own apartment downtown.