I hefted the machine, but Dad insisted on carrying the tote out to my car. He gave me a box of pistachio burfi (which was my favorite Indian sweet, despite my cat’s name) and a kiss on the cheek once we got everything into the car. “I’m glad you’re starting up that old hobby again. You used to spend hours, just sitting there concentrating on making something nice for yourself—or someone else.”
I’d never thought about it like that. “That’s true. I guess no one really thinks about nice things for themselves enough.”
“No offense, hon, but especially you. You spend so much time critiquing yourself, there’s not much room.”
I laughed. “Was that a critique?”
“A gentle reminder,” he said with a smile just as gentle. “Have fun with it.”
“I will. Thanks, Dad.”
* * * *
I sifted through a few m
