PART 11 — The scent of pancakes and forgiveness
The apartment’s kitchen smelled of warm butter, vanilla, and batter. Daan stood with a ladle in hand hovering over the frying pan, while Emma set the table with everyday tableware. No special plates, no fuss, just as it should be. “Are you sure you can flip them without landing on the floor, Daan?” I asked, laughing as I hung my cardigan over the back of the chair.
“Of course, Grandma!” the boy said proudly, though the first pancake he flipped indeed landed half-folded on the edge of the pan. We all had to laugh. The sound of our shared laughter filled the small kitchen in a way I could hardly remember. How long had it been since I had laughed so unguardedly? For twenty years my laughter had been stifled by a sense of duty and fear of what was proper and improper.
Emma walked over to me, took my hands, and nodded briefly. Without words we told each other what needed to be said: we are here again. Not as two strangers who accidentally met on the street, but as mother and daughter. We sat down at the table. Daan stacked the pancakes on a platter and placed them in the middle. Beside them stood syrup, sugar, and a jar of jam.
“Enjoy your meal,” Daan said. I took a bite. The pancake was a bit too thick and slightly burned in places, but it tasted like home. Like a new beginning. As we ate, Daan talked about his plans for the junior fire brigade and about school, and Emma occasionally chimed in with stories from the past I had missed—the first time he rode a bike, his first day of school with a bag too big for his back, and the time he had been sick and they stayed awake together for three nights.
I listened. I didn't interrupt. I gave no unsolicited advice and judged nothing. I knew now that love isn't about being right or imposing strict rules; love is about being there. Just keeping your mouth shut and listening to the other person’s story.
