When my son sl:apped me for interrupting his video game, I just lowered my head and walked to the kitchen. I spent three hours baking his favorite triple-chocolate cake
cake because monsters are easiest to trap when they believe they’re being rewarded.
The kitchen slowly filled with the scent of cocoa, butter, and warm ganache. I brewed artisan coffee using beans I usually saved for Christmas mornings. I moved carefully, almost tenderly, while the bruise on my cheek darkened into a purple crescent.
