Layla
Golden morning sunlight filtered through the kitchen windows, casting a glow on the woman and the little boy bent over the marble counters. Eli perched on his stool, his lower lip between his teeth as he watched Melissa Marcello expertly roll dough across the floured countertop.
In the doorway of the kitchen, I bit back my own smile at the sight. It was undeniably adorable and heartwarming.
Eli’s small voice broke the comfortable silence. “Nonna, can I help?”
The name he’d so effortlessly taken for her still took me by surprise—it was the same name I called my own grandmother.
Melissa turned to him with a soft smile, her hands never pausing on the dough. “Of couse, caro. But dust your hands with flour first.”
She guided his small hands, her movements so patient, so tender. My
