For those interested, below is my book landing page. Please give me a follow on Amazon.
Previous Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54 | 55 | 56 | 57 | 58 | 59 | 60 | 61 | 62 | 63 | 64 | 65 | 66 | 67 | 68 | 69 | 70 | 71 | 72 | 73 | 74 | 75 | 76 | 77 | 78 | 79 | 80 | 81 | 82 | 83 | 84 | 85 | 86 | 87 | 88 | 89 | 90 | 91 | 92 | 93 | 94 | 95 | 96 | 97 | 98 | 99 | 100 | 101 | 102 | 103 | 104 | 105 | 106 | 107 | 108 | 109
Kate’s Point Of View
Lizzie was sick, so I took over the Sunday kitchen duties. I frantically whipped pancake batter, carefully lined up bacon rashers under a grill, and painted on maple syrup and toasted bread while brewing Liza’s excellent coffee. When that was ready, I poured my daughter a glass of ice-cold milk.
I felt great.
In a moment of peace, while everything sizzled, crisped, or brewed, I stared at Alicia, who sat on a kitchen stool on the other side of my counter. She was completing some French homework and, by the looks of it, getting it mostly right. We agreed she would only commit two hours on Sunday to studies and take the rest of the day to do as she pleased.
“You are a real Mom this morning, Mom.”
I stared at her with no response to that comment and mixed feelings; some were good, and others were not so much.
“I am a real Mom.”
“I know. That’s what I said.”
“I’m a real Mom every day, though.”
“Sorry… I meant one who cooks.”
“I cook.”
My voice sounded squeaky and insecure, so I lowered it a few octaves, composed myself, and tried again, exuding confidence.
“I cook.”
“I haven’t seen you do that since I arrived until today.”