That evening, I returned home.
My daughter sat at the kitchen table, waiting for me.
“Is Grandpa coming back?”
I sat beside her.
“No, sweetheart.”
Her face crumpled. I held her until the crying passed.
“Is Grandpa coming back?”
Then I opened the drawer beside the stove.
The old metal star cutter lay near the back, scratched and darkened by years of Sunday mornings.
I mixed flour, eggs, milk, cinnamon, and chopped apples.
My daughter watched me pour the batter inside the little star.
“Why did Grandpa always make them this shape, Mom?”
The old metal star cutter lay near the back.
I looked at the two photographs resting beside the stove.
“Because someone taught him that love can remember one person and still make room for another, sweetheart.”
We ate at the kitchen table.
My daughter took one bite and smiled.
For a brief second, her laughter filled the room.
My daughter took one bite and smiled.
It was the same kind of laughter that had once frightened Frank.
The same laughter that had eventually taught him to stay.
I placed the star cutter beside the stove when we finished.
It would be there next Sunday… And every Sunday after that.
Not because grief had disappeared.
Because love had finally grown large enough to carry it.
It would be there next Sunday.
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