“She poured it in from a mix. I watched her,” my brother says over my shoulder as he awkwardly climbs from the car with his crutches that were stretched across our laps for the ride here. “Thank God,” I say to him. “I know, right?” he chuckles. “Hush, both of you. I could cook if I wanted to,” she says. Our father lets her walk on to the door, but turns to face us with the trays of cookies in his hands and shakes his head to show how little he agrees with that statement.
