Page 2 of Babydaddy To Go

This is the first I’ve heard of it. My parents died in a car accident when I was young and so Grams and Pops took me in, raising me on their Maine ranch. Sometimes, they tell me about their daughter, but many times Grams’s voice chokes up and she can’t go on.

“Mom loved to cook?” I ask in a small voice. Any mention of Nancy always makes me feel sad. It shouldn’t because I don’t remember that much of her, but at the same time, I can feel my chest constricting on its own.

Grams smiles.

“She didn’t always. She used to hate the kitchen, and then one Mother’s Day when she was thirteen or fourteen, I came down and found her cooking a three-course breakfast. She made pancakes, waffles, French toast, eggs… you name it, she cooked it. After that day, I couldn’t get heroutof the kitchen.”

“I didn’t know that. I guess Ididget something from her.”

“Oh, honey, you got a lot from her. Your smile, your kindness, and your sense of humor, for example.”

“Thanks, Grams,” I smile tremulously. I barely got a chance to know my parents before they were taken from me, so it’s nice hearing that I have parts of them in me. I know I don’t look much like my dead mother, but at least we had our love of food in common. That makes my acceptance into NYACA even more special.

“You know, thinking about your Mom reminds me of a time when she was about your age,” Grams tells me nostalgically. “She had just broken up with her high school boyfriend. They tried to make it work while she was away at college, but Nancy and that boy didn’t have much in common. She came home for Spring Break and found out he’d found other ways to entertain himself while she was away. Ways with a skirt, mind you.”

I gasp.

“Seriously? Some jerk cheated on Mom? Oh my god!”

Grams pats my hand.

“Language, honey. But yes, he was awful. I never liked that boy, but your mom was smitten. She thought he’d be hers forever, the whole shebang. Of course, you know how that turned out. There are no forevers in this world.”

Grams’s words make me sad again even though they shouldn’t. After all, my parents are only a memory now. They met during lab their junior year in college, when Mom was twenty-one and Dad was twenty-two. They had me soon after the wedding, and then boom, the car accident. Life kind of came to a standstill after that.

“Anyways!” Grams says quickly. “One Mother’s Day, your mom walked into the house upset holding three heaping grocery bags. She set out to make the ultimate chocolate cake. Baking was your mom’s specialty, you know.”

I love to bake, too, but it’s not my strongest area in the kitchen. I’m much better with the stovetop. But Grams is lost in memory and continues.

“Nancy made a dozen different chocolate cakes that night, tweaking the recipe as she went. Around four in the morning, she woke up your grandfather and me to inform us she had officially made the ‘Best Chocolate Cake In The World.’ I’m a little biased, but I think she was right,” my grandmother chortles.

“Do you still have the recipe?” I ask eagerly, swiping at the tears in my eyes. I was too young to really know my parents when they died, but I still miss them.

Grams nods.

“I make it for you every year on your birthday.”

My eyes go wide.

“I had no idea that was Mom’s recipe!”

Grams nods knowingly.

“I don’t know why I never told you, come to think about it. It’s hard talking about Nancy sometimes, even after all these years.”

I wipe away another tear, sniffling discreetly.

“Thank you for telling me now. It means a lot to me.”

Maggie nods, her blue gaze catching mine.

“She’d be so proud of you, Alyssa. You’ve grown up to be an incredible woman, and you’re going to kick butt at that culinary school. And maybe you’ll find a nice man while you’re there,” she winks.

I throw on a smile, but I know my grandmother’s not joking. She’s a hopeless romantic who’s been trying to set me up with the perfect man since I turned sixteen. Clearly, it hasn’t worked yet because I’ve been on more dates with frogs than I can count.

“Oh wait a moment,” Grams exclaims, reaching beside her. “I almost forgot. I came up here because I found this photo.”

She hands me a polaroid of a woman around my height, but with a smaller behind. I know immediately it’s my mother. I’ve seen enough photos of Nancy as an adult to recognize her in her early twenties. But this is a picture I’ve never seen before. In it, my mom is covered in cocoa powder and frosting. There’s a speck of white in her hair – probably flour. Her red and white checkered apron gives her a vintage look.