When My Stepson Refused His Grandma’s Expensive Cake And Ran To The Kitchen For My Burnt Crusts, Her Lawyer Handed Me An Eviction Notice

Chapter 2: The Baker’s Measure

The iron gate of the carriage house rattled against the November wind from Lake Michigan.

Inside the small kitchen, I packed my copper measuring spoons into a cardboard box while Mateo sat on the radiator cover with his knees pulled against his chest.

“You aren’t supposed to pack the sugar bin,” he said, staring at the floorboards.

“The bin belongs to the house, Mateo,” I replied softly, folding an embroidered tea towel around my rolling pin.

“Mom wrote my name inside the lid with blue chalk,” he insisted.

I paused with the pin in my hands, remembering the afternoon Clara had stood on a wooden step stool with a piece of carpenter’s chalk tucked behind her ear.

“She wrote it so the pantry delivery boys wouldn’t swap the bins when they brought the raw cane sugar from the warehouse,” I said gently.

“She wrote it because it was mine,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against the cold window glass.

Daniel appeared in the doorway, his overcoat unbuttoned and snow melting on his shoulders.

“She called the trust attorneys from the car on her way home,” Daniel said, looking at the packed boxes on the counter.

“She has the authority over the cottage deed, Daniel,” I said.

“It is in the probate schedule,” he said, rubbing his temple.

“The Mercer Trust holds the deed to the main house and the grounds,” I reminded him.

“You’ve taken care of him since Clara died in that hospice wing two years ago,” Daniel said, his voice dropping as he stepped into the warm kitchen.

“You hired me because I worked the night shifts at Clara’s bakery,” I told him plainly.

“I know,” he said.

“She trusted me with her flour ratios and her child,” I said.

Daniel leaned his palms against the edge of the zinc counter, staring down at the ring of keys I had laid beside the kettle.

“I was not awake during those first six months, Elena,” he said, his voice strained with an exhaustion that had never quite left his shoulders.

“You were grieving your wife,” I answered without looking up from the box.

“My mother told me that signing the residential trust transfer would protect Mateo from estate taxes,” he said.

“Your mother told everyone that Clara died leaving behind debts that would drown the family name,” I said.

Mateo reached out and touched my wrist.

“Did you take the salt box?” he asked.

“The salt is on the shelf,” I told him.

He shook his head stubbornly.

“Not that one,” he said.

“The wooden cellar with the brass hinge,” he whispered.

Daniel frowned, looking between us.

“Clara kept dried rosemary in that cellar,” Daniel noted.

“No,” Mateo said firmly.

“Mom hid the paper ribbons in there when Aunt Evelyn came to the hospital,” he said.

Daniel walked over to the corner pantry shelf and lifted the small wooden box.

The hinge was stiff with kitchen grease and old salt patina, clicking sharply as he forced it open beneath the hanging bulb.

Beneath three ounces of coarse kosher salt sat a folded parchment envelope sealed with masking tape.

Daniel wiped the salt crystals onto his palm.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Your mother told Clara that the bakery property on Halsted Street was underwater when Clara got sick,” I answered.

Daniel carefully peeled back the dry masking tape.

Inside rested two cancelled commercial checks and a certified carbon receipt from Cook County Recorder of Deeds.

“Clara bought the ground lease back in 2021,” Daniel read aloud, his eyes scanning the certified numbers.

“My mother told the estate executors that the trust absorbed the outstanding bakery loans,” he said.

“She told Clara the same thing while Clara was in palliative care,” I said.

“She offered to assume the debt if Clara transferred the carriage house parcel into the main residential trust,” Daniel realized.

“Clara wouldn’t sign it,” I said.

“She gave me the receipt the week before she passed,” I told him.

“Why didn’t you show me this during probate?” Daniel asked, his voice shaking.

“Because you were letting your mother manage the filings while you couldn’t get out of bed,” I said honestly.

“You asked me to keep Mateo fed and quiet so you could sleep,” I reminded him.

“I thought Arthur Vance was representing our interests as the surviving heirs,” Daniel said, his fingers trembling against the parchment.

“Arthur Vance has been on your mother’s payroll since before you passed your bar exam,” I told him.

“Clara told me that if I gave you those papers while you were sedated on sleeping pills, Evelyn would have had Vance declare them informal records,” I added.

“She told me to wait until someone tried to take the ground beneath Mateo’s shoes,” I said.

Daniel looked down at his son.

Mateo was tracing the faded pencil mark on the blue recipe card.

“Grandma Evelyn said Elena made bad biscuits to make me poor,” Mateo said.

“Your mother burned the bottoms because the back oven burner ran ten degrees hot,” I told the boy.

“She always scraped the char with the butter knife before she gave you the heel,” I added.

“And she dipped it in the sweet cream before she handed it across the cutting board,” Mateo remembered, his chin quivering.

“Every single morning,” I whispered.

Daniel’s jaw tightened as he folded the carbon receipt into his breast pocket.

“The trust board meets at ten tomorrow morning at the downtown bank branch,” Daniel said.

“Evelyn holds the majority voting shares through the family foundation,” I warned him.

“She holds five of the nine seats because she claims Clara’s business liabilities dragged down the residential balance,” Daniel said.

“If the bakery property was free of encumbrance, the estate distribution was calculated on a fraudulent deficit,” he noted.

“I am a household employee on a weekly ledger, Daniel,” I said.

“The board will not listen to my testimony about pantry receipts,” I added.

“They will listen to the registrar,” Daniel said.

“The registrar only shows what was stamped, Daniel, not the working ledger,” I said.

I opened the lowest cabinet drawer, pulled out a thick bound journal wrapped in black oilcloth, and laid it beside the biscuit cutter.

“What is that?” Daniel asked.

“Clara kept two sets of daily production sheets,” I answered.

“One went to the shop accountant for state sales tax filings, and one stayed inside the flour bin for the year-end reconciliation,” I told him.

“She logged every supplier credit from the wholesale grain elevators in Rockford,” I said.

“She paid off the mixer leases and the refrigeration contract with cash disbursements from the Saturday morning bread sales,” I explained.

Daniel opened the black cover, staring at Clara’s familiar, slanted handwriting in dark blue ink.

“She signed every single page,” Daniel murmured, running his thumb over the bottom of a ledger dated August 2021.

“She had me countersign as the inventory supervisor,” I said.

“Why didn’t Vance ask for this when he prepared the estate schedule?” Daniel asked.

“Because Vance sent a junior paralegal to the bakery on a Sunday afternoon while Clara was undergoing radiation,” I replied.

“They took the register tapes from the counter and left the filing cabinet locked,” I said.

“They wanted the balance sheet to show an empty operating account,” I added.

“And I let them do it,” Daniel said, his voice cracking as he looked away toward the dark yard.

“You were sitting by her bed holding her hand while her heart rate dropped,” I said softly.

“You were not an accountant that week, Daniel; you were a dying woman’s husband,” I told him.

“That doesn’t excuse letting my mother lock you out of this cottage,” he said.

“Then help me keep the boy warm tonight,” I said.

“We have to sleep on the pullout couch because the radiator in the small bedroom is clicking,” I told him.

“I will sleep on the armchair downstairs,” Daniel said, picking up his wet coat.

“No,” Mateo said, grabbing his father’s sleeve.

“Stay by the table,” Mateo said.

“Draw the bread oven with the hot burner so I can show Abuela,” the boy demanded.

Daniel sat down at the wooden table, pulled a stub of a pencil from his pocket, and began sketching the rectangular frame of the old commercial oven on the back of an envelope.

Mateo leaned against his father’s elbow, pointing out the bottom left heating coil with his finger.

“That’s where the flame gets orange,” Mateo told him.

“That’s where Mom put the heavy skillet,” Daniel remembered, a faint smile breaking through his exhaustion.

I went to the stove, heated a cup of whole milk with a pinch of brown sugar, and set it before the boy.

“Drink it before the skin forms on top,” I told him.

Mateo drank in quiet, careful sips, watching his father sketch the vents and the thermometer dial.

When the milk was gone, I carried Mateo to the cot in the front room, tucked his woolen blanket around his shoulders, and waited until his breathing slowed into a steady rhythm.

Outside the cottage window, the streetlights along the parkway blurred behind sheets of freezing rain.

I did not sleep that night.

I sat by the kitchen counter with my portable adding machine, cross-referencing Clara’s bank deposits against the canceled checks from the wooden salt cellar.

Every hour, the grandfather clock in the main house chimed through the frosted trees, reminding me of the sunrise deadline Evelyn had stamped on the eviction paper.

At five in the morning, the furnace in the basement clanked twice and shuddered into silence.

The temperature in the kitchen plummeted within minutes, our breath fogging in the gray light.

Daniel came downstairs with an extra quilt pulled over his shoulders, his face pale and lined with gray stubble.

“The oil tank is empty,” Daniel said, checking the gauge on the cellar wall.

“Your mother canceled the automatic delivery contract last Friday,” I said, showing him the pink billing postcard that had arrived in yesterday’s mail.

“She wanted to ensure the pipes would be drained before the new tenants arrived,” Daniel said bitterly.

“She has no shame,” he added.

“She has control, Daniel,” I said.

“There is a difference,” I noted.

At seven in the morning, the snow had turned to gray slush along Michigan Avenue.

I dressed Mateo in his wool coat and accompanied Daniel to the municipal records building on Clark Street.

The wind off the river was cutting, whipping sleet across the wide limestone steps of the county complex.

Mateo walked between us, holding Daniel’s hand with his left and mine with his right, jumping over the dirty puddles at the curb.

We passed through the security metal detectors and entered the basement archives, where rows of green metal filing cabinets smelled of damp paper and floor polish.

The clerk behind the counter, Mrs. Alvarez, adjusted her reading spectacles and pulled up the commercial parcel ledger.

“Mercer Bakery Holdings on North Halsted,” she recited, tapping the mechanical keys.

“The satisfaction of mortgage was logged on October 14, 2021,” she confirmed.

“Who presented the payoff?” Daniel asked.

“Clara Mercer personally,” the clerk said, turning the computer monitor slightly toward the glass partition.

“She paid with a cashier’s check drawn on the Commercial National Bank of Chicago,” Mrs. Alvarez said, squinting at the microfiche index.

“Then why did Evelyn Mercer file an affidavit of insolvency on November 3, 2021?” Daniel asked.

The clerk pulled a heavy microfiche binder from the shelf behind her desk.

“The affidavit claims an unrecorded inter-family loan of one hundred and forty thousand dollars,” Mrs. Alvarez said.

“There is no promissory note attached to this filing,” she observed.

“Is an unattached claim sufficient to attach a lien against the residential parcel?” Daniel asked.

“It passed through probate because no interested party contested the schedule within six months,” Mrs. Alvarez replied.

“Daniel was the executor,” I reminded her.

“My mother had my power of attorney while I was on medical leave,” Daniel admitted quietly.

“Did you revoke that power before the final accounting was entered?” Mrs. Alvarez asked, looking at Daniel over the gold rim of her glasses.

“I revoked it the week after Clara’s headstone was set,” Daniel said.

“Let me look at the docket history,” Mrs. Alvarez said, turning the large roller on the microfiche reader.

The screen flickered with negative images of probate filings, dates running down the margins like cemetery markers.

“Here it is,” she said, tapping the glass with a yellow pencil eraser.

“The affidavit of insolvency was submitted with an amendment dated January 2022,” she said.

“Whose signature is on that amendment?” Daniel asked, leaning forward against the counter.

“Arthur Vance signed as attorney-in-fact for Daniel Mercer,” she read.

“I revoked his power in December 2021,” Daniel said, his voice dropping into a harsh whisper.

“The revocation is filed in Book 412, page 90,” Mrs. Alvarez noted, frowning as her eyes darted between the two records.

“Vance used a revoked authority to file an encumbrance against the carriage parcel,” she said.

“Can you print a certified copy of both entries?” Daniel requested.

“It will cost fifteen dollars per certified seal,” she told him.

“Give me three copies of each,” Daniel said, pulling his wallet from his coat.

Mateo pulled on my sleeve.

“Are we going to my school now?” he asked.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” I said.

“Will Abuela take the cottage?” he asked.

“No one is taking the cottage today,” Daniel said firmly.

Mrs. Alvarez stamped the raised crimson seals onto the heavy paper, the metal embosser thumping against the wooden counter like a gavel.

“You should take these directly to the probate clerk on the twelfth floor if you intend to file an emergency injunction,” she advised.

“We have a board meeting first,” Daniel said, sliding the papers into his leather briefcase.

We took the elevator up to the fourteenth floor of the Northern Trust building at twenty minutes to ten.

The lobby was lined with dark walnut paneling, thick gray wool carpeting, and oil portraits of former bank presidents staring down with solemn bronze plaques beneath their frames.

A brass cart stood near the receptionist’s desk, bearing a crystal pitcher of iced water and tiny porcelain cups.

Mateo walked on his tiptoes, his boots squeaking softly against the polished marble perimeter.

“Do they have biscuits here?” he asked in a small voice, looking at the receptionist’s glass bowl of foil-wrapped mints.

“No, Mateo,” I whispered, holding his small hand securely.

“Sit on the leather bench and hold your drawing,” I told him.

He climbed onto the green leather bench, clutching the folded envelope where Daniel had drawn the commercial oven.

Evelyn was already seated at the head of the conference table, her camel-hair coat draped over the leather chair.

Beside her sat Arthur Vance, the estate’s primary legal counsel.

Two independent trustees, retired bank officers who had known Daniel’s father, sat with their legal pads open.

Mr. Henderson, the elder trustee whose family had founded the North Halsted grain terminal, was polishing his bifocals with a linen handkerchief.

The younger trustee, Mr. Morris, was reviewing a stack of blue-bound quarterly audit reports.

“Daniel, you brought the child to an administrative meeting,” Evelyn said without looking up from her papers.

“And you brought your paid cook,” she added coolly.

“Elena is Mateo’s legal guardian of care under Clara’s personal directive,” Daniel said.

“That directive was never probated,” Vance interrupted smoothly.

“It has no bearing on property management or trust distributions,” Vance stated.

“Arthur, let us keep this efficient,” Evelyn said, gesturing with her gold pen toward the empty chairs.

“The estate cannot continue to maintain an auxiliary structure for private use while our real estate holdings require capital expenditure,” Evelyn continued.

“This meeting was called to formalize the tenancy termination for the auxiliary dwelling unit,” Evelyn said.

“Elena’s presence on the property creates an unhealthy emotional dependency for Mateo,” Evelyn asserted.

“The child refuses appropriate nutritional standards and rejects social integration with his family,” she claimed.

“He refused your cake because Clara never put almond extract in his food,” I spoke up clearly.

Evelyn’s eyes narrowed as she turned toward me.

“You will not speak to the board, Miss Ortiz,” she said.

“Mateo has a documented tree-nut sensitivity noted on his pediatric chart at Northwestern,” I continued evenly.

“Clara used oat milk and vanilla,” I told the room.

“You put marzipan inside that frosting yesterday to make it stand stiff for your photographs,” I said.

One of the independent trustees, Mr. Henderson, looked up over his half-moon glasses.

“Is that true, Evelyn?” Henderson asked.

“The baker assured me the extract was artificial,” Evelyn responded dismissively.

“The baker does not hold a medical degree, Evelyn,” Henderson remarked dryly, adjusting his papers.

“We are not here to debate a child’s pastry preferences,” Vance intervened, his tone authoritative and sharp.

“We are here to ratify the executive decision of the managing trustee,” Vance argued.

“The carriage cottage represents an unliquidated asset that carries a municipal tax liability of four thousand dollars annually,” Vance explained.

“Under Section Nine of the Mercer Family Trust, any asset that fails to produce a net yield of three percent must be returned to the primary fund for commercial reallocation,” Vance stated.

“The cottage yields no rent because Elena has been providing full-time childcare in lieu of cash compensation,” Daniel countered, standing tall at the foot of the mahogany table.

“There is no written employment contract reflecting that agreement,” Vance said, tapping his legal pad.

“Therefore, under Illinois property law, Miss Ortiz is a tenant-at-sufferance whose occupancy can be terminated with thirty days’ written notice,” Vance declared.

“We gave her thirty days through our formal process, and yesterday’s notice was simply the operational demand for physical surrender,” Vance concluded.

“Mateo knows what his mother made,” Daniel said, setting the wooden salt cellar directly in front of Arthur Vance.

“What is this theatrical nonsense?” Vance asked, tapping his fountain pen against his pad.

“That is the container where Clara kept the certified payoff for the Halsted ground lease,” Daniel stated.

Vance did not touch the box, but his eyes flicked toward Evelyn.

“The Halsted property was liquidated to settle outstanding equipment liens,” Vance argued.

“The equipment liens were satisfied in July 2021 from bakery cash flow,” I said, stepping forward.

“You have no standing to speak regarding estate debt, Miss Ortiz,” Vance said, his face flushing red above his starched white collar.

“I kept the daily ledger books for Clara during her last nine months,” I explained.

“You were a kitchen assistant,” Evelyn scoffed.

“I have an associate degree in accounting from Harold Washington College,” I replied steadily.

“And I signed the monthly tax reconciliation sheets as Clara’s designated bookkeeper,” I added.

I placed my own black leather notebook on the table next to the salt cellar.

“Every vendor receipt, every flour delivery, and every payroll slip from January 2021 to Clara’s death is recorded here,” I said.

“Clara never took a loan from the Mercer Foundation,” I stated.

“The one hundred and forty thousand dollars Evelyn claimed on the probate schedule was a gift Daniel’s father gave Clara in 2018 for oven installation,” I clarified.

“A gift documented as non-repayable under section four of the original trust agreement,” Daniel added.

Evelyn tightened her grip on her pen until her knuckles showed white through her skin.

“Daniel, you are listening to a domestic worker over your own family,” Evelyn said.

“Clara was my family,” Daniel said.

“Clara made bread,” Evelyn said coldly.

“She dragged our name through storefront retail,” Evelyn said.

“She spent her afternoons covered in flour while our peers were hosting gallery benefits on the Gold Coast,” Evelyn continued, her voice bitter and low.

“She made sure Mateo was safe,” Daniel replied.

“And she made sure this trust could not take the roof from over Mateo’s head,” he added.

Vance cleared his throat and leaned toward Evelyn.

“Evelyn, if the 2021 satisfaction was filed prior to the probate inventory, we have an exposure issue,” Vance whispered.

“We have no exposure if Daniel does not initiate a formal dispute,” Evelyn whispered back, her tone freezing.

“The dispute is already initiated,” Daniel said, laying the certified documents from Mrs. Alvarez directly over Vance’s legal pad.

Henderson reached across the table and pulled the top sheet toward his seat.

He read the red-stamped seal from the Cook County Recorder of Deeds, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline.

“Arthur,” Henderson said, his voice dropping into the quiet of the room.

“Why is your signature appearing on an amended affidavit of insolvency dated January 12, 2022?” Henderson inquired.

“I acted under the standard authority granted during the probate administration,” Vance answered quickly.

“Daniel’s revocation of your power of attorney was entered into county record on December 28, 2021,” Henderson read aloud.

“Did you certify this encumbrance without the executor’s knowledge?” Henderson asked.

“The estate was subject to immediate creditor deadlines,” Vance said, his voice rising slightly in pitch.

“The family foundation had advanced substantial funds during Clara’s medical treatments,” Vance tried to justify.

“Show me the canceled foundation checks, Arthur,” Daniel demanded.

“The payments were handled through the operational accounts of the real estate group,” Vance said, shifting in his chair.

“They were never advanced,” I said, opening my black ledger to the tab marked ‘Medical Expenses – 2021’.

“Clara’s chemotherapy and palliative care were covered eighty percent by the Bakers Union Health Plan,” I stated.

“The remaining twenty percent was paid directly from her personal savings account at Chase Bank,” I showed them.

“Here are the wire confirmations, signed by Clara and reconciled against the hospital invoices,” I pointed out.

Mr. Morris leaned across Henderson’s shoulder, scanning the printed bank statements pasted neatly into my notebook.

“These are stamped by the hospital billing director,” Morris noted.

“There is no entry here from the Mercer Foundation,” he said.

“Evelyn, did the foundation advance eighty thousand dollars as recorded in your annual report to the board?” Henderson asked.

Evelyn did not answer immediately.

She adjusted the diamond brooch pinned to her lapel, looking out the floor-to-ceiling glass toward the gray lake.

“The foundation had allocated the capital reserves to ensure the boy would not be left destitute if the bakery failed,” Evelyn said stiffly.

“Allocating reserves is not an encumbrance against real property, Evelyn,” Henderson said firmly.

“You filed a false claim against your daughter-in-law’s estate to force the carriage house into the primary trust asset pool,” Henderson stated.

“The carriage house belongs to the family estate,” Evelyn insisted, slamming her palm flat against the mahogany surface.

“My grandfather bought that parcel in 1934,” she said.

“Clara was a shopkeeper’s daughter from Pilsen,” she spat.

“She had no business holding title to Mercer land,” Evelyn said.

“Clara purchased the carriage cottage from the bankruptcy court when my father’s holdings were liquidated in 2019,” Daniel said.

“She used her inheritance from her grandmother to save the property from being sold to a condominium developer,” he revealed.

“She kept it in her name so that you could not use it as collateral for your bad commercial leases,” Daniel added.

“The estate tax returns were signed under penalty of perjury,” Henderson noted from across the table.

“If the liabilities were artificially inflated to transfer the carriage cottage deed, this board must suspend the termination notice immediately,” Henderson declared.

“I will not have my grandson raised by a girl who smells like frying oil,” Evelyn snapped, her voice breaking its smooth composure.

The room fell completely silent.

The hum of the central heating unit in the ceiling seemed to roar in the stillness.

Arthur Vance closed his mouth and slowly lowered his fountain pen to the pad.

Mateo stood up from the green leather bench in the reception entryway and walked into the conference room.

His woolen coat was still buttoned to his chin, his red mittens tucked neatly into his pockets.

He looked up at his grandmother, then looked down at his own small leather shoes.

“She smells like cinnamon, Abuela,” Mateo said into the quiet room.

“And she remembers to cut the crust off when the burner gets too hot,” he added.

Henderson closed his leather binder with a firm snap.

“The termination of occupancy is tabled indefinitely,” Henderson said.

“We will order an independent forensic audit of the 2021 estate schedule,” he decided.

“Vance, you will provide the working files to Mr. Daniel Mercer’s independent counsel by five today,” Henderson instructed.

“I need forty-eight hours to compile the physical correspondence,” Vance objected, gathering his loose papers with clumsy hands.

“You will deliver whatever you have by five o’clock, Arthur, or this board will retain outside counsel to examine your firm’s retainer,” Henderson ordered.

“And you, Evelyn, will step aside as managing trustee until the county records are cleared,” Henderson added.

Evelyn rose from the table, her camel coat sliding off the chair onto the carpet.

“You are destroying this family’s standing over a cottage kitchen,” she said to Daniel.

“You tried to evict the only person who kept your grandson grounded while I was mourning,” Daniel said.

“You can leave the building now, Mother,” he told her quietly.

Evelyn did not look at Mateo as she walked past him toward the heavy double doors.

Her heels clicked sharply against the marble foyer, the sound fading as the heavy glass lobby doors swung shut behind her.

Henderson stood up, extended his hand across the table, and shook Daniel’s hand.

“I knew your father for forty years, Daniel,” Henderson said.

“He would have been appalled by what was submitted in that probate schedule,” he said.

“Thank you, Robert,” Daniel replied.

“Take care of the boy,” Henderson said, looking down at Mateo with a gentle nod before gathering his coat.

We walked out into the cold November sunlight together, the lake breeze clearing the stuffy air of the conference room.

The gray slush along the gutters was beginning to freeze into clear glass under the pale midday sun.

Daniel stopped on the stone steps of the bank building and knelt down in front of his son.

“I’m sorry about yesterday, Mateo,” Daniel said.

“I should have told Abuela no at the table,” he admitted.

Mateo pulled the charred biscuit heel from his coat pocket, wrapped carefully in a white paper napkin.

“Can we go back to the cottage?” Mateo asked.

“Yes,” Daniel said, looking up at me.

“The cottage is yours, Elena,” Daniel said.

“Clara wanted you to have the life estate for as long as you want to stay,” he revealed.

“I don’t need a life estate, Daniel,” I told him, looking him in the eye.

“I need an employment contract that reflects my actual work,” I said.

“And I need you to show up for his dinners instead of leaving him alone with the staff,” I stated.

“I don’t want to manage this house like a museum,” I added.

“Clara built a home where a child could drop crumbs on the floor without being scolded,” I told him.

Daniel nodded slowly, his eyes red from the cold wind.

“I can do that,” Daniel said.

“We will have our own counsel draft the employment terms this afternoon,” he promised.

“And the cottage deed will be transferred into a protective trust for Mateo with you as the designated custodian,” he said.

“I will sign whatever keeps him safe,” I said.

“We have to fix the back burner on the stove first,” Mateo said, slipping his small hand into mine.

“It always burns the biscuits on the left,” he noted.

“We can scrape them together,” I told him as we started down the steps toward home.