Chapter 3: What Survived the Fire

Michael arrived twenty minutes later carrying a fresh pizza and an old metal recipe box that had belonged to our mother.

He didn’t try to hug me. I appreciated that. Some distances shouldn’t be crossed without permission.

At the kitchen table, he removed the pouch from the box and held it beneath the light.

“It’s Mom’s kitchen timer,” he said.

I stared at the strip of red enamel. Suddenly, I remembered the round timer that had once sat beside our mother’s stove. She used it for everything from biscuits to Sunday roasts.

Years earlier, when Michael and I were young adults still living at home, a pan had caught fire in that kitchen. I had discovered the flames and smothered them before anyone was hurt, but the wall and stove were badly damaged.

Michael had left the burner on. I took the blame because he was already struggling at work and feared our father would throw him out.

Our mother never confronted either of us. Michael moved away soon afterward, and the truth hardened into a wall between us.

“Mom kept the timer?” I asked.

Michael nodded. “And she left something inside the recipe box that I should have shown you years ago.”

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