Emma, seven years old now, came bounding down the porch steps, her dark curls flying, wearing an oversized pair of my reading glasses and carrying a brightly colored clipboard.

“Mommy!

Stop right there!” she called, holding up a small imperious hand.

“I need to perform a compliance audit before you can enter the kitchen!” I stepped out of the car, fighting to keep a straight face.

“A compliance audit?

On what grounds, inspector?” “On the grounds of baked goods,” said Julian, appearing on the porch with a tea towel over his shoulder and warmth crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“The committee has determined that chocolate-chip cookies require immediate quality control.” Emma dissolved into giggles, dropped her professional demeanor entirely, and tackled my legs in a fierce hug, and I lifted her up and breathed in the smell of ocean air and warm vanilla and pure, uncomplicated joy.