I didn’t realize how tense I was until she reached for the knife and asked, “Can I help?” Her dad had stepped out to take a call, leaving just the two of us and a pile of apples between us. I showed her how to slice safely, how to toss the fruit with sugar and cinnamon, how not everything has to be perfect to be good. She listened, quiet but curious, like someone trying on trust for the first time.
When the crisp came out of the oven, she stood beside me, shoulder to shoulder, watching it bubble. “We did that,” she said, like it was a small thing. But it wasn’t. Every time I peel apples now, I remember: families don’t always arrive whole. Sometimes they’re built in small, sticky moments—shared dessert, shared silence, and the slow courage to let someone new belong.