The kitchen smells like sugar, vanilla, and peace.

For the first time in days, I feel a little bit normal again.

Emma stands by the counter, her soft curls pulled into a messy bun that’s falling apart, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration as she mixes cake batter in a glass bowl. Every time she lifts the spoon, streaks of yellow drip down in thick ribbons.

“Are you sure you’re doing it right?” I ask, leaning against the counter with my elbows.

She shoots me a mock glare. ...