food.
Initially, Ava was horrified.
She stood in the hallway whispering, “Oh my god, mom, what are you doing? I’m salvaging what’s left of your dignity and dessert. Help me find more chairs.”
I reminded her she’d spent three days cooking something wonderful.
This wasn’t pity.
It was defiance.
She fell silent, struggling to process the situation.
We pushed two folding tables together and arranged the dishes.
By the third wave of guests, Ava was back in the kitchen reheating food and worrying about sauce temperatures.
Then a journalist arrived.
