I laughed.
Ethan turned toward the stove.
He picked up his father’s old spatula.
“Mom, watch this.”
He slid it beneath a pancake and flipped.
“Mom, watch this.”
The pancake folded in half.
Lily burst out laughing.
“That one’s yours.”
Ethan scraped it onto her plate.
“You’re welcome.”
I reached for the spatula.
“Want some help?”
“That one’s yours.”
He shook his head.
“I’ve got it.”
I stepped back.
For a moment, I remembered his father standing in that same kitchen, insisting the first pancake was supposed to look like that.
“I’ve got it.”
Ethan poured another circle of batter.
This time, he waited.
Then he flipped it perfectly.
“See, Mom?”
“I see.”
“He flipped it perfectly.”
Lily pointed at the apron.
“Don’t get batter on my pocket.”
Ethan looked down.
“That’s literally what pockets are for.”
“No, they’re for snacks.”
Jacob laughed.
And while the children argued over whether pancakes counted as pocket snacks, I set four plates on the table.
