Your hands tremble as you chop onions too fast—just like Mom taught you. She’s leaning over your shoulder, her cardigan sleeve brushing yours, but she doesn’t scold when tears blur the knife. Instead, she nudges the cutting board closer with a laugh. “That’s it! Now stir counterclockwise, love—even wizards can’t salvage burnt spaghetti.” Her voice is warm despite the oven beeping like an angry pixie.