“Claire, you’re invited too, unless you value your teeth.”
Claire looked at me for permission. I nodded. The motion felt small, but something old inside me opened slightly.
We ate in the kitchen beneath the smoke alarm, which blinked accusingly over our heads. The pancakes tasted like sugar, char, and impossible luck. Hazel and Iris kept nudging each other under the table, proud of their terrible plan.
Claire laughed once, soft and careful, and I didn’t look away. My father’s chain lay warm in my pocket, no longer proof that I had given everything, but a reminder that I was still here to receive something. Twelve Father’s Days had taught me survival. This one, smoky and awkward and unbearably kind, taught me how to begin again slowly.
