By evening the snow came sideways, erasing the parking stripes and the thin green of the boulevard. I added another log to the fireplace app on my TV (citygirl workaround), wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, and opened a box I hadn’t since I moved: my mother’s recipe cards, the edges soft as cloth. Diane’s handwriting slanted to the right, impatient but careful—a woman who measured toward comfort. I ran a finger over “chicken and dumplings (add parsley if fancy),” and for once the ache that came wasn’t sharp. It was round as the bowl I ate from. I closed the lid and put the box on the shelf above my desk where the morning light would find it.