Evelyn cooked constantly—soups in impossible colors, meats with alarming textures, cookies that defied classification. But every dish came wrapped in tenderness and nostalgia. She often mentioned her daughter, Emily, her voice drifting into some distant place whenever she said her name. Only later did George reveal the truth: Emily had died decades earlier on an icy road nearby. She had adored her mother’s cooking, begged for lessons, cherished every shared recipe.
Grief had frozen Evelyn’s willingness to cook for years. Only recently had she begun again, making dishes she believed Emily once loved. They weren’t good, George admitted gently. But Evelyn’s smile had returned, small and trembling but present each time she tried. I had unknowingly become the stand-in for the daughter she lost.
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