“Exactly,” I said, kissing the top of his head. “We like real things. Real friends. Real laughter. Real cake made by real moms who can’t frost evenly.”
Leo giggled. “The cake is lumpy.”
“The cake is lumpy,” I agreed. “But it’s made with love, and that’s the only ingredient that actually matters.”
We sat in comfortable silence for a while, the swing creaking continue reading …
