She attempted to bounce back, tossing arguments my way. Stuff regarding legal claims, relatives, and fresh starts, yet I was paying zero attention.
The cooking area carried the scent of crushed garlic and fresh herbs, a sort of warmth that settles inside your heart before you even notice how much you require it. My father had slipped away to the rear garden the moment Miranda departed.
I understood he required some private time, particularly following the massive shock she had delivered.
Currently, I remained by the oven mixing our preferred hearty meal: a rich meat soup.
“You did not need to make dinner, Gav,” he mentioned from the room entrance.
“I had to keep my fingers busy, Dad,” I answered. “Plus I guessed you might appreciate a hot meal.”
He offered a brief dip of his head.
“She paused for twenty-two whole years to throw that news at you,” he noted, strolling near to mix the broth.
“And at you too, Dad,” I chimed in gently. “She tossed it onto the two of us.”
