The child looked at Lena.
“Did you like it?”
Lena thought.
“At first I hated it.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought it meant they noticed I was different.”
The child frowned.
“But you are different.”
Emma laughed louder.
Lena smiled.
“Yes.”
“I eventually learned that wasn’t the bad part.”
“What was?”
“The bad part was when people noticed and decided difference meant I deserved less.”
The child stared at the chair.
“But Grandpa made you more.”
Lena looked toward Emma.
Then back at the child.
“No.”
“He made enough.”
The child did not entirely understand.
That was fine.
She climbed down and ran toward bread cooling on the counter.
“Can I have one?”
Emma called:
“Ask Lena.”
The child looked back.
Lena smiled.
“Take two.”
The girl grabbed two rolls.
One in each hand.
Then ran outside.
Emma came into the dining room.
For a while the two women sat quietly.
Emma was nearly sixty.
Lena could still see the six-year-old inside her when light hit her face a certain way.
Emma touched the old chair.
“I remember the first supper.”
“So do I.”
“I thought you were never going to come.”
“I nearly didn’t.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Papa said.”
“Of course.”
Emma smiled.
“I waited at the table for twenty minutes before you arrived.”
“You were impatient.”
“I thought maybe you changed your mind.”
Lena looked toward the door.
“No.”
“I just didn’t know how to believe anyone wanted me there.”
Emma’s eyes filled.
“I did.”
“I know now.”
“No.”
Emma leaned closer.
“I really did.”
“You thought bread tasted better when you ate with somebody.”
“That was part of it.”
“What was the other part?”
Emma smiled.
“You talked to me like I wasn’t broken.”
Lena’s throat tightened.
The old bakery sounds floated through the open doorway.
Flour sacks.
Wooden trays.
People talking.
A child laughing outside.
Emma continued.
“After Mama died, everybody whispered around me.”
“Teachers.”
“Neighbors.”
“Papa.”
“They looked at me like I might shatter.”
“You didn’t.”
“No.”
“You asked if heaven had bread.”
Emma laughed.
“I forgot that.”
“I didn’t.”
“You told me Mama might have to learn how to bake.”
“Still true.”
Emma wiped one eye.
“That was the first time after she died that an adult said something about her that didn’t make me feel worse.”
Lena looked at her.
“And I thought you invited me because your father felt sorry for me.”
Emma’s eyebrows rose.
“Papa?”
“Yes.”
“He was terrified of you.”
Lena laughed.
“He was not.”
“He absolutely was.”
“Why?”
“Because you argued about every coin.”
“Financial discipline.”
“And because he liked you.”