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He thinks of Lily’s boxes of keepsakes and realizes these are the riches. What the hell has he been doing, he wonders, sifting through the earth on another continent, looking for the fragmented remains of someone else’s life from a thousand, or ten thousand, years ago? Looking for broken pieces of china, a chip of clay, as though they were precious. As though they had more importance than the foundations of his own life with Lily, which she has nurtured all this time.
“Do you know the things I love about you, Lily? Really love?” She shakes her head. “Because, yeah, it’s true, I do love that you speak so many languages, that you know your way around European cities, that you’re my equal. Not even my equal; you’re better than me. But I also love the way you sleep curled up like a dormouse,” he says, mimicking her pose. “I love that when you send me letters, you sign off with your first and last name and I’ve never known why you do that, but I haven’t asked in case it makes you stop. I love that you add lemon to everything you cook. I love that in winter you
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Mehri has always treated parenting like she’s cooking a big warming pan of something: a pinch of that, a pinch of this, she’s sure it will turn out fine in the end. Cora’s own approach has always felt more like baking a cake: carefully measuring out ingredients and trying not to ruin everything. She admires Mehri’s way.
