There Was an Extra Place at the Table for My Late Husband—That’s When My Son Went Pale

the strips together. Two years after his death, I still baked as if he might walk into the kitchen and cut himself a slice before it cooled, still measured the nutmeg the way he liked it, still left the edges a little darker because he always ate those pieces first.

“Mom, you made it,” Michael said, taking the dish from me with a smile that didn’t quite continue reading …