It was my mom’s.” She laughed like I’d made a joke. “I’ll be so careful.
It’s one cake.” My daughter was watching from the porch steps. And I heard myself say, “Fine.”
Saturday morning I found it on my porch. Not handed to me. Not even a knock.
Just sitting there by the mat, where anyone walking past could’ve taken it.
Cream dried into the seam, cracking, four days old. She hadn’t rinsed it.
I plugged it in. The motor made a sound I’d never heard in thirty-six years.
I walked across the grass and knocked on her door. I wasn’t even angry yet.
I thought she’d been embarrassed. She opened the door holding her coffee.
