She looks at me with as much affront as a four-year-old can manage. I swear, the cuteness factor is almost lethal. Thank goodness I have more tolerance than most of the adults in Maisy’s life.
Pen, Tyler, my mom, and even my dad are much more susceptible.
“What were you washing in the kitchen, Maisy?” The fact that I have to ask twice does not give me confidence.
“Things,” she says as though it should be obvious.
When I walked out of the kitchen not ten minutes ago, it was with the intention of grabbing one of the boxes of small appliances from the stacks of boxes still in the front hall and coming right back. Maisy had been playing on the floor with her toy kitchen set. But the insurance guy called, asking me if I wanted to bundle property liability to the policy since I’d be opening a business, and I went down an insurance rabbit hole.
They exist. I swear it.
“What things?”
Maisy tilts her head left then right as if debating how much detail she’s willing to share. I could just stride back to the kitchen to find out what she’s been up to, but I don’t. I asked her a question. I’ll wait for the answer.
Maisy side-eyes me, and I know immediately she’s afraid of my reaction. “Nanna’s cooking cards.”
My heart plummets. I steel my features. “Nanna’s recipe cards?”
My grandmother kept all of her recipes in plastic index card boxes, organized by categories: Baking, Holidays, Poultry, and then alphabetized by name.
These boxes constitute a family treasure. I clench my back teeth so I don’t wail. Instead, I hold out my hand to my child.
“Show me.”
It’s only when Maisy takes my hand in hers and starts tugging me to the kitchen that I lock eyes with Pen and see my horror mirrored in hers. She follows hot on my heels. As far as she’s concerned, Nanna’s recipes might as well be magic spells.
“The boxes was dirty,” Maisy explains.
Boxes?
Please, God, please let her recipes be intact.
“Oh holy—” Pen’s hand flies to her mouth.
Four—four—of Nanna’s ten index card boxes are in the sink, floating like jettisoned ice chests after a boating accident.
“I cleaned them.” Maisy points her palms toward the basin of sudsy water.
I cross the big kitchen at a run and perform a water rescue.
“Maisy—”
I check my tone. She didn’t mean to do any harm. I swallow against loss and anger. Anger at myself. I shouldn’t have left her in here alone. Not even for ten minutes.
“We might be able to save them,” Pen says beside me. She opens the nearest box. The crisp white index cards are now a wet gray. Nanna’s familiar curlicued handwriting swells and bleeds. “Let’s try laying them out.”
I open the box in my hands labelled Baking and stifle a moan. I can barely make out the first recipe. Nanna’s Banana Nut Bread. I can almost taste my childhood—the smell of that bread baking in this kitchen and the way it made me feel grounded when my world was turning upside down.
“What’s wrong, Mama?” Maisy asks. “You sad?” I know she’s watching my face. I don’t want to upset her, but I don’t want to lie to her either.
I make eye contact with her. “I’m sad, Maisy,” I say as evenly as possible. “I miss Nanna.”
“Did I do bad?” Her voice is pinched in a way I know means tears are imminent.
“Baby, you didn’t mean to.”
Her glasses magnify the tears welling in her brown eyes. “Did I hurt Nanna’s cooking cards?”
