Ivy laughed as flour dusted her cheek.

“Easy,” she told the boy gently, guiding his small hands away from the bowl. “We mix, not fight it.”

Her son frowned in deep focus, tongue peeking out as he stirred again, slower this time. The bowl was almost too big for him. His arms shook with effort.

Her daughter stood on the stool beside them, chin lifted, watching everything with sharp interest. “Mommy, I want the first one.”

“You always want the first one,” Ivy said, smiling as she ...