Naomi POV
"Pass me the salt, dear," Mary gently asks.
"Here." I hand the jar to her and watch her skillfully maneuver her way around the kitchen as she prepares a dish she calls Baked Ricotta.
The kitchen is warm. The windows are steamed. The smell of garlic and cheese fills the air. Mary moves like she has done this a thousand times – because she has. Her hands are sure. Her eyes are focused.
I sit at the wooden table, my hands wrapped around a cup of tea that has gone cold.
"You are really going to love this, Naomi." She says excitedly. You can feel her excitement radiating off her.
I look at the cheese‑looking thingy, and I am not quite sure. It looks like a lump. A delicious lump, maybe. But I do not want to seem rude by making a face.
"It smells good," I say.
"It tastes better
