EMILY’S POV
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Standing with my bag in front of my mother’s house, I itch, everywhere. What will she say? What will she think? I inhale a deep breath as my hand reaches for the door handle and I open it, striding inside. “Mom,” I beam, smiling when I notice the house is clean, tidy and it smells like baked goods. The cluttering bang comes from the kitchen, and I drop my bag and rush towards it. “s**t!” my mother’s voice follows the loud bang and I slide into the kitchen, my eyes falling on her and I still.
She’s baking.
“What happened?” I ask as she cleans her hands, and her gaze lifts. “Emily,” her sweet soft smile takes me back to the time my father still lived. She used to bake, all the damn time, the house smelt delicious and it felt homey, and she stopped when he died, but now she’
