Chapter 15
Emmett wanted to make blackberry cobbler again.
That surprised everyone except Helen.
“He keeps asking.”
I looked at him.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He shrugged.
“Mine broke.”
Child logic.
Clean.
The first cobbler had not failed.
It broke.
So make another.
I liked that better than every adult interpretation.
We cooked together.
I was useless.
Helen eventually took the knife away from me.
Emmett found this hilarious.
“Daddy bad.”
“Apparently.”
He stirred the berries.
I handled the oven.
We made a mess.
Normal.
When the cobbler finished, Emmett stared at it proudly.
Then asked:
“Who taste?”
My chest tightened.
Old ritual hiding inside innocent words.
“Who do you want?”
He thought.
“Helen.”
Perfect.
The pastry chef nearly cried when he gave her the first spoonful.
“Good?”
She chewed with exaggerated seriousness.
“Very good.”
Emmett beamed.
Then:
“Daddy.”
I tasted it.
Too sweet.
Slightly underbaked.
Best thing I had ever eaten.
“Perfect.”
Helen glared at me.
Dishonest father.
Fine.
Emmett carried a small bowl to Thomas.
Then to one of the gardeners.
Then ate some himself.
No matriarch.
No permission.
No seat earned.
Food returned to being food.
That evening, he asked:
“Can Lucille have later?”
I stopped.
His choice.
“Maybe.”
“Not now.”
“Okay.”
He nodded.
No adult should rush generosity from a child to make the family feel healed.
May you like
Lucille would wait.
For once, the timing belonged to him.
