I rap my knuckles on the stovetop and draw the attention of Aunt Veronica and her client, the woman who sat beside me at the diner when Darla set up my housekeeping interview. Aunt Veronica glares, but the woman waves. I give her a tight-lipped smile.

“Did you happen to get the mail today?” I ask my great aunt.

The anger drains from Aunt Veronica’s face and is replaced by calm indifference. She gestures to the counter by the sink. “You...have some things there.”

My stomach knots as I approach the stack of mail. Can good news await me? But would my great aunt look as she does if that’s the case?

The mail has been separated into two piles, one large one for Aunt Veronica and a small one for me. My pile consists of three letters. My hand shakes as I reach for the letters and read the envelopes.

It takes me a solid minute before my mind processes what I read. When the words make sense, my racing heart stops. My stomach drops to the floor.

Once a week for the past three weeks, I’ve sent a letter to my father. All the letters have, in clear, black ink, ‘return to sender’ printed on the front. They’ve never been opened.

I figured my father would do this. He did the same to Nicole—still does when she writes him the odd letter. But I hoped he wouldn’t with me, not to his baby.

“Are you all right?” Aunt Veronica asks.

Sudden anger overrides my sadness, and I tear the letters to shreds. I toss them into the trash with a vow to never buckle again. “Yeah,” I say and pick up the brownies I made the night before for the Kings to thank them for giving me a ride home last week when my car refused to start. I head for the front door. “I need to get to work. I’ll be home later.”

***

At the Kings’, I push myself. I clean like a maniac, partially to make up for the time I lost by accidentally sleeping-in that morning, but mostly to keep my thoughts away from those letters. If I slow down, I’ll feel the full impact of my father’s rejection again. I’ve come too far in the past two months to reduce myself to the shell I was when I first arrived in Derbinwood.

My plan works until I take my lunch break. I want to skip it, but I haven’t eaten yet, and I don’t want to get sick. I get myself a plate of the leftover lasagna from Thursday (left in the refrigerator just for me) and intend to eat it as fast as possible. Yet once I sit down, I can’t touch my food. In a giant wave, the feelings I’ve tried to wall off all day crash into me, and I burst into tears.

How can my father act so callously? Do I mean that little to him? Why can my father turn off his love so easily without concern for whom it harms?

Ten minutes into my cry-session, Crystal appears in the dining room doorway. She drops the shopping bags she holds and rushes to me. “What’s happened? Did Jen—What’s wrong?”

I wipe at my eyes, but my tears won’t stop. “N-nothing. I’m f-fine.”

Crystal sits in the seat next to me and takes my hands. “Please, don’t. Talk to me. Maybe it’ll help.”

“I don’t—It’s stupid.”

“It can’t be that stupid if it’s got you this upset.”

I swallow hard. “I, um, didn’t leave home of my own choice. My...dad kicked me out.”

Crystal’s jaw tightens. “Why?”

“You know how I dropped out of college to pursue other options?”

“Yeah, you want to open a bakery.”

The fact that Mrs. Kings remembers that, when I only mentioned it once, surprises me. But my misery buries the emotion as I say, “My dad thinks that’s terrible, and told me I’m ruining my life. Now he doesn’t want anything to do with me. I...I wrote him a couple of times, and he had the letters returned to me, without even reading them.”

Crystal doesn’t answer for a long moment. Her expression remains troubled, but she doesn’t drop my hands, and I’m glad she hasn’t. The kind gesture soothes my raw nerves, and, in time, I can control my sobbing. It doesn’t stop altogether, but my body no longer heaves with my sadness.

“Do you think you’ve made the wrong decision?” Crystal finally asks; her eyes on me.

“I-I don’t know. Most of the time, no, I don’t believe I did. I...love baking more than most anything in my life.”

“But?”

“What if my dad’s right? What if I never make my dream a reality? My sister tried to follow her dreams, and now she’s a homeless druggie. I don’t want to wind up like her.”

“You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

Crystal smiles. “You adapt well when life throws you curveballs. I don’t see you letting anything stand in the way of what you want to accomplish. You might not reach your goal the way you expected, but you will reach it.”

Mrs. Kings’ words wrap around me like a warm blanket, but they can’t kill one nagging point. “My dad is almost always right.”

Crystal smirks. “So is my mom, but I haven’t let that stop me. Every day I strive to prove her wrong.” She chuckles, but the sound holds no cheer. “I’ve had a six-year-long winning streak.”

The topic of Crystal’s mother floors me. On more than one occasion, Crystal has gone out of her way to avoid any conversation dealing with her parents. Once, Crystal, who never yells (not even when she fights with Jenna), snapped at Adam when he pushed the issue of holiday plans with their families a little too hard.

“Does it get easier to deal with?” I really want to ask about Mrs. Kings’ problems with her mother, but I won’t put Crystal in that position.

Crystal shrugs. “That’s all up to you.”

“Okay...”

Crystal produces a packet of tissues and gives it to me. “That’s the spirit.”

I dry my face and blow my nose. Done, I hand back the packet. “Thank you.”

Crystal leaves the tissues on the table. “Don’t mention it.” She pats my arm. “Feeling any better?”

“Yeah, I can work.”

Mrs. Kings waves my comment away. “I’m not worried about that. You do such a great job, so what if you miss a day because you have to?”

Tell that to Jenna, I think, but will never say out loud. Unlike Adam, Crystal doesn’t criticize Jenna’s behavior, at least not when I’m around. If Jenna acts poorly, Crystal tries to reason her out of it, sort of like a tired parent does with their tantrum-throwing toddler. Nine times out of ten, Jenna ignores her, so Crystal has taken to showering me with small gifts.

“I’m glad it’s appreciated.”

Crystal grins. “More than you know.”

The glow in Mrs. Kings’ gaze makes me want to fidget, but I pick up my plate of uneaten lasagna instead and stand up. I need the food, but I no longer have the stomach for it. Maybe I can force down a couple of crackers. They’ll at least tide me over until I return to Aunt Veronica’s.

Crystal jumps up. “I’ll leave you to eat.”

“No, I can’t...This isn’t good for me right now.”

“I can make you something. I’m not as good a cook as Jenna, but I can heat up a mean can of tomato soup.”

I laugh. “That doesn’t sound half bad.”

“Good.” Crystal takes the lasagna and dashes toward the kitchen. “How’s a grilled cheese sandwich sound?”

I trail after her. “Just the soup.”

“Your wish is my command.”

I chuckle harder and watch as Crystal puts the lasagna back into the refrigerator and retrieves the proper pan for the soup. I offer to help, but Crystal won’t allow me to lift a finger. She pours me a glass of milk and orders me to enjoy it while she cooks.

I feel a little uncomfortable about my boss taking care of me, but I really enjoy the gesture. It reminds me of when Nicole used to watch me when our parents went out of town; when I liked my sister. A rush of nostalgia floods me, but I don’t let it drag me back into my misery.

Ten minutes later, Crystal sets a steaming bowl of soup before me. I thank her and dig into my lunch. It doesn’t taste as good as the lasagna would have, but it's pleasant nonetheless.

While I eat all my soup, Crystal asks me questions about my future bakery. At first, my answers shake with hesitation, but by the fourth question, I find her stride. No one, not even Tyson, wants to know more about my dream once I tell them about it. I haven’t realized how much that bothers me until now, confronted with genuine interest.

“So, what kind of goodies do you plan on selling?”

I point at the container of brownies by the microwave. “Stuff along the lines of those.”

Crystal grabs the container. “What’s in here?” She pops off the lid and gasps. “Are these homemade?”

“Yeah. They’re...my way of saying...thank you for last week.”

“You didn’t have to repay us.” Mrs. Kings takes out a portion of brownie and tosses it into her mouth. “Oh, but I’m glad you did,” she says as she chews.

“How are they?”

Crystal licks her lips and snags another brownie. “One of the greatest confections I’ve ever had.” She shoves the whole brownie into her mouth.

“They’re about the only thing I can do well.”

Crystal swallows her mouthful. “So far.” She puts the top back on the brownies and tucks the container under her arm. “I think I’ll keep these for myself.”

I smile.

“Now, you’ve made trouble for yourself.”

My grin falters. “Oh?”

“I want something tasty like this every Saturday.” Crystal winks. “It’ll give me a reason to go to the gym.”

“Yeah, I can do that.”

Another of Crystal’s mesmerizing smiles holds me in place. “Every day I find another reason to adore you, you know.”

Crystal’s statement sends a jolt through my full stomach. I drop my gaze and shove my empty bowl toward Mrs. Kings. “I think I should get back to work. Thank you, again, for lunch.”

Crystal’s mouth opens but then snaps it shut just as fast. “Okay. Oh, and you’re welcome.”

I try not to run from the kitchen.