Leah..
Flour dusted my hands and the air around me as if I’d been caught inside a snow globe. The dough beneath my palms refused to cooperate, folding and rebelling no matter how hard I pushed. I was doing everything but kneading—trying to squeeze guilt out of my bones, as if the rolling pin could flatten the ache.
“I’m so sorry, Nicole,” I whispered, the words lodged in my throat like a stone.
The kitchen was loud with my own clatter—bowls slammed, the wooden spoon scraped the mixing bowl, a measuring cup clattered to the floor—yet the noise only emphasized the silence I felt inside. It pressed on me like a lid.
“Leah.” Jack’s voice came from the doorway, calm but threaded with concern.
I didn’t turn. I could picture him: leaning in the frame, arms crossed, that worried crease at his
