Then I opened the drawer beside our stove. The old star cutter was still there, scratched and dark with age, worn smooth by years of Sunday mornings.
I mixed flour, eggs, milk, cinnamon, chopped apple. My daughter watched the batter pour into that small tin star.
“Why did Grandpa always make them this shape, Mom?”
I looked at the two photographs propped beside the stove.
“Because someone once taught him that love can hold onto one person,” I said, “and still make plenty of room for another.”
We ate together at the table. She took one bite and smiled, and for a second the whole kitchen filled with her laughter — the same laughter that had once terrified a grieving man half to death, and had eventually taught him how to stay.
When we finished, I set the star cutter back beside the stove.
It’ll be there next Sunday. And every Sunday after that.
