stared at the article.
Then checked the comments.
Reactions were already pouring in.
Readers called Ava amazing.
Asked where they could try her food.
And questioned how anyone could abandon their own granddaughter that way.
I glanced at Ava, asleep on the couch in her apron, hands curled as though still holding a spatula.
I knew the story wasn’t over.
Not even close.
The article was already spreading.
And certain people wouldn’t appreciate the attention.
There’s a particular silence before angry visitors reach your door.
No footsteps.
No shouting.
Just
