“Oh?”
“She had a farm—nothing big, just a few acres—and I spent summers there as a kid. Big kitchen, big stove, all this space for everything, like this. That’s where she taught me that great food starts with good ingredients and patience.” June smiled at the memory. “She used to say that anyone can follow a recipe, but a real cook learns to listen to the food.”
“Listen to the food?”
“Paying attention to how things smell, how they look, how they feel. Learning to adjust as you go instead of just following instructions blindly.”
Melissa was quiet for a moment, focused on her peppers. “I’ve never been good at adjusting as I go. I prefer plans. Schedules. Knowing what comes next.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“Is that a criticism?”
“No. Just an observation.” June glanced at her sidelong. “There’s nothing wrong with liking structure. Some people need it.”
“And you don’t?”
“I used to think I didn’t. I was chaotic in school, always forgetting things, being late… But then I worked in a professional kitchen, and I learned that even creative work needs structure.” A pause. “I also learned that some structuresare there to help you, while others are there to control you. The trick is figuring out which is which.”
Melissa’s hands stilled on the cutting board. “That sounds like hard-won wisdom.”
“It was.” June shrugged, a motion that was simpler than the feelings behind it. “Kitchens have very strict rules, and very strict hierarchies. When you’re still young and new, that’s…” She trailed off, not knowing how to put it into words.
”A way for others to take advantage of you,” Melissa said.
June nodded, but didn’t elaborate. She wasn’t ready to talk about Ember, about the kitchen that had broken her, about all the ways she’d let someone else’s structure define her worth. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But Melissa didn’t push. She just nodded and went back to chopping, and somehow that made June want to tell her everything.
“It’s just… the people there are all colored by the way they were treated when they were new,” she said. “And so it’s all a bad paying-forward sort of thing. Everyone gets treated badly for years, and when they finally get higher up, they’re no longer very nice either.”
Melissa nodded. “Sounds a lot like politics.”
June chuckled. “And I’m not sure who has worse hours.”
Dinner was simple—grilled salmon with the vegetables they’d chopped together, rice, a salad that Lila helped assemble. They ate at the kitchen table, all three of them, and the conversation flowed more easily than it ever had before.
Lila talked about her wreath project, about the dress she’d picked out, about the fireflies she’d seen in the backyard the night before. Her mother listened, asked questions, laughed at Lila’s description of a stubborn piece of ribbon that wouldn’t stay tied.
June watched them interact, feeling something warm expand in her chest. This was what she’d wanted when she’d taken this job—to help create moments like this, to fill the silence with something alive.
She just hadn’t expected to feel so invested in the outcome.
After dinner, Lila insisted they go outside to look for fireflies again. June had found some mason jars in the garage, and she helped Lila punch air holes in the lids while Melissa settled into one of the porch chairs.
“You’re not going to help catch them?” June asked.
“I’ll supervise.” But she was smiling, her hair loose around her shoulders for once, her feet bare against the worn wood of the porch.
It wasn’t unlike the day on the beach. She looked… almost soft.
Don’t stare, she told herself.Don’t—
“Miss Hollis! I see one!”
June turned to help Lila chase the flickering light across the grass, both of them laughing as it evaded their cupped hands. They caught three in the first jar, tiny lights pulsing against the glass, and Lila held it up triumphantly.
“Look, Mom! Look how many we got!”
