The Meal Someone Cooked for You With Love

I don’t cook for praise, but I watch the way your eyes close when you taste the broth, and I know I got it right. My hands aren’t perfect, but they’ve learned yours. I remember how you like your coffee, when you skip meals, what you say after the third bite of something good. This isn’t just food. It’s the shape of care when you don’t know how to ask for it.