“If you take care of it, it might outlive both of us.”
That weekend, Sophie and I made my mother’s Sunday cake.
Chocolate.
Simple.
Nothing elaborate.
Sophie measured the flour.
I handled the mixer.
When I switched it on, she smiled.
“Sounds normal.”
“It does.”
I watched the paddle turn.
And for one second, I could almost see my mother standing in her old kitchen.
The same sound.
The same cream-colored mixer.
The same ridiculous emotional attachment to something most people probably would have replaced decades ago.
Denise never asked
