“Okay.”
He didn’t say anything else.
“What kind of stuff?”
That evening, I heard cupboards opening.
Ethan stood in the kitchen with flour on his sweatshirt.
“What are you making?”
“Pancakes.”
“For dinner?”
“Why not?”
I smiled.
“Fair argument.”
“What are you making?”
He pulled a battered spatula from the drawer.
I recognized its chipped wooden handle immediately.
My husband had used it every Sunday morning.
He always burned the first pancake, then claimed he was testing the pan.
“My husband had used it every Sunday morning.”
Ethan poured batter into the skillet.
The pancake came out lopsided.
He frowned.
“Too thick.”
I watched him try again.
Suddenly, I remembered something.
Ethan had been making pancakes almost every Sunday for months.
“Suddenly, I remembered something.”
I’d assumed he enjoyed cooking.
But he always used that spatula.
And always made them the way his father had.
“Ethan?”
“Yeah?”
“Is this why you started making pancakes?”
