Page 30 of Cooking Up My Comeback

Another page. A newspaper clipping from 2002, when Grandma’s gumbo won first place at the county fair.

“I wanted to be her,” I admit. “I wanted to run akitchen like hers. One where people came in hungry and left healed.”

“You still can.”

My throat tightens. “I think I forgot how to dream. Between the bills and the chaos and the kids and broken equipment. I let it slip away. And I’ve been so scared, Mom.”

“You’re allowed to be scared. You’ve had the weight of three lives on your shoulders. You’ve been surviving. But maybe it’s time to start living again.”

“But what if I make the wrong move now and everything collapses?”

“You won’t be doing it alone. This Brett sounds like someone who’s already showing up for you. And if he turns out to be trouble, you’ve got a mother with excellent aim and a mean right hook.”

That gets a laugh through my tears.

“Amber, you don’t have to have it all figured out right now. But don’t you dare walk away from your dreams just because they scare you.”

We move out onto the screened porch overlooking the intracoastal waterway. The same porch where I used to sit with Grandpa and count jumping fish before sunset. We settle into the old rocking chairs with chipping blue paint, and Mom hands me sweet tea that appeared from her maternal arsenal of comfort tools.

A motor hums in the distance. A white boat with a peeling decal readingDr. D’s Day Offpulls up to the dock. Out steps my dad, still wearing his fishing hat with two neon green lures stuck in the brim like trophies. He’s holding a massive cooler and waving like he just returned from slaying a dragon.

“Ladies, hope you’re hungry. I caught a fish the size of my ego!”

Mom chokes on her tea.

Dad drops the cooler with dramatic flair. I peer inside at an enormous red drum.

“Twenty-six inches. Almost didn’t fit in the cooler.”

“You are not cleaning that thing in my kitchen,” Mom says.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Garage sink is prepared and ready.”

I roll my eyes, but it’s impossible not to smile. My parents are ridiculous. And steady. And still here.

This is the life I came from. Loud and imperfect and full of strange fish metaphors and emotional pep talks with muffins. This is the kind of love that doesn’t walk away when things get hard. The kind of home where failure is just the first draft of better.

“You know, Grandma always said you could taste love in the food,” Mom says. “I think she was right. But I also think you can taste legacy.”

I stare out at the water that’s carried generations of my family in and out of this little town.

“What if I mess it up?”

Mom doesn’t even blink. “Then you learn. You grow. You try again.”

Dad holds up the fish like an Olympic medal. “And when in doubt, add butter. Nobody argues with butter.”

I laugh again, full and real this time.

Because maybe that’s what I needed. Not a perfect plan. Just a reminder that home doesn’t disappear when you fall apart. It waits. It believes in you. And maybe it rocks beside you with sweet tea and tells you your dreams are worth fighting for.

EIGHT

BRETT

I’m elbow-deep in plumbing when my phone buzzes against the sawdust-covered floor. For a second, I consider ignoring it. The water line under the prep station has been fighting me all morning, and I’m pretty sure it’s developing a personal vendetta against my wrench collection. But then I see Amber’s name on the screen, and suddenly, the stubborn pipe can wait.

Amber: Can I come see the place? Before I give you an answer?