Found Evelyn’s old recipe box while reorganizing the pantry. Her handwriting is so precise and confident—nothing like the shaky loops I practiced for weeks. I decided to make her grandmother’s cinnamon rolls. The recipe called for ‘a knob of butter’ and ‘a good pinch of salt,’ instructions that felt like a secret language. Mine came out lopsided, a little too sweet. He ate two and said they were perfect.

Sometimes I wonder what she would have cooked for him on a quiet night like this. I hope she’d approve of the way I keep the kitchen window cracked to let the smell of rain in, or that I finally got her rosemary plant to thrive. This life is a patchwork quilt—her memories, my careful stitches, his quiet contentment. I’m learning that love can be a kind of haunting, and a kind of home, all at once.