Page 66 of The Truth of Us

He looked up, offended. “I can handle breakfast.”

“You once burned toast so badly that the smoke alarms in the east wing went off.”

“That was a faulty toaster,” he replied.

“It was a commercial-grade toaster.”

“Faulty commercial-grade toaster.”

I laughed softly and moved toward him. His eyes warmed at the sound.

“Merry Christmas, my angel.”

I crossed the kitchen and wrapped my arms around him.

“Merry Christmas, Dad.”

He held me tight for a moment, kissing the top of my head before letting me go.

On the island sat eggs, flour, butter, a bowl of cranberries, and three different recipe books.

I raised an eyebrow. “Ambitious.”

“I was attempting to bake.”

I picked up the closest book, not one of the polished chef-written ones. This one was old, with a green fabric cover that had frayed at the edges and a split spine from overuse.

My breath caught before I even opened it. My mother’s cookbook. The book had lived in the kitchen when I was little. Not on a shelf with the decorative cookbooks no one actually used, but shoved into drawers, left open on counters, stained with butter, wine, and tomato sauce. I ran my fingers over the cover.

“I haven’t seen this in forever.”

My father’s voice softened. “I found it yesterday.”

I opened it carefully. The pages smelled faintly of paper, vanilla, and time. Her handwriting appeared in the margins. Notes beside recipes. Little pieces of her tucked between flour measurements and oven temperatures.

Beside a cranberry-orange loaf recipe, she had written: Alexander says he hates cranberries. He is lying.

A laugh burst out of me before I could stop it.

My father leaned over my shoulder. Then huffed. “Slander.”

“But you do hate cranberries.” I said, my finger trailing over her handwriting.

“I would eat anything she made.”

I remember that, mom was an incredible cook, but sometimes she would get it wrong and Will and I would complain, but Dad would eat whatever she put on his plate.

I turned to another page. A folded recipe slipped free and fluttered onto the counter. I picked it up carefully. The paper was soft from use; the edges browned slightly.

Christmas Eve Pasta In my mother’s handwriting. Underneath, in smaller print: Harper likes extra cheese. Will eats around mushrooms. Alexander will complain and then have seconds.

My throat closed. For a second, the kitchen blurred.

I saw Will at the counter, rolling his eyes because I had too much cheese on everything. My mother laughed as she swatted his hand away from the pan. My father pretended to hate that she would cook every Christmas Eve so that the staff could be home to their families, while stealing whatever she was cooking straight from the dish when he thought no one was looking.

I set the paper down slowly, and my father’s hand covered mine.

“Do you want to make it?”