Frosting Stitches

An Excerpt from Every Ghost Has An Author

The kitchen floor was yellow linoleum, worn soft under bare feet. The house was never quiet — there were always doors slamming, siblings yelling, TVs turned up too loud — but the kitchen felt different. It was its own small refuge, the only room that could hold both safety and joy. When my mom was in it, the kitchen smelled like warmth itself, like love…