She took one bite, covered her mouth, and started crying so hard I thought I had done something wrong. Then she whispered, “It tastes exactly like Mom’s.” That was the first time she had ever really talked to me about her mother. She explained that her mom used to make that cake every year for her birthday, but after she passed away, nobody had been able to recreate it. The handwritten recipe was one of the few things she still had, and she had been terrified that making it with me would somehow feel like replacing her.
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