She had discovered her pregnancy late. She was lost, panicked. She had no one to help her. A doctor had told her it was too late to have an abortion. But she didn't want this baby. Neither do I. The world collapsed around me that day. But the next day I realized. I couldn't let anyone go through what I had gone through. So I tried to be present. Not easy when the girl carrying the child refuses to go to any medical appointment. I have never attended an ultrasound. On the day of the delivery, Ariane called me, more panicked than ever. I didn't have a driver's license but I had already spent enough hours behind the wheel to know how to do it. I joined her at her house and borrowed her parents' car. They were absent, like every day as far as I understood. The birth was very difficult for her. She didn't want to become a mother, she didn't want this being coming out of her body, she didn't want this suffering, she didn't want any of that. I stood next to her and said nothing. I was captivated by what fell on my head.

 Mila was born on the fifth of September. The day my life changed. I looked up into his eyes and knew. The two of us were going to be one hell of a team. The nursery nurse asked me to give her a bodysuit and a pair of pajamas but I had nothing. Ariane hadn't bought anything and I hadn't thought of it. I wanted it so much! My daughter had been born barely five minutes earlier and now I was already failing in my role as a father. I ran to the first store I found, bought the cutest stuff, and came back to the maternity ward. Mila was swaddled in a swaddle, peacefully asleep in her crib, next to her mother's bed. Ariane stared into space. She didn't react when I showed her what I had bought. She didn't react when Mila started crying from hunger. She did not react when it had to be changed. She didn't react when the pediatrician told us we could go home three days later.

 The only time she came out of her lethargy was when she packed her suitcase and left us. Mila was five days old. We were installed in my small room, with Jacques and Annie. Ariane pretended to pick up things at her place. She never came back.

 For almost six months, I flooded his voicemail with messages. I sent her pictures, convinced that she would change her mind when she saw her daughter's face. But I was wrong. And the day I realized it, I jumped at the only opportunity I had and took the plane, Mila in my arms.

Tony

 Our little apartment is totally silent when I slip out of the sheets. I fumble for my glasses in the dark, quickly slip into old clothes and tiptoe out of my room. I take advantage of the calm to go get the gift I hid in the backyard of the pub, one floor below where I'm staying. Despite the creaking wood under my shoes, I go up the stairs making as little noise as possible but I know that the minutes are counted. Although my daughter is usually a late riser, she always opens her eyes at dawn on her birthday. I place the surprise in the middle of our tiny living room before hurrying to the kitchen where I place her favorite cup on the table. I take out a bottle of milk, the dark chocolate then I turn on the gas. The flames crackle but eventually stabilize to give me time to heat the milk with a few grains of brown vanilla sugar that I prepare once or twice a year. When it reaches the right temperature, I dip squares of dark chocolate into the hot milk while stirring gently. A delicious brown foam forms on the surface and I smile.

 I've always loved mixing ingredients, experimenting with my own food, but I didn't really start cooking until we settled down here in Ireland. All it took was one day that was a little more complicated than the others, a loneliness that was a little too clinging to my skin and a few ideas that were a little too gloomy for me to rob the small local convenience store, a makeshift baby carrier attached against my chest, a few coins jingling at the bottom of my pocket. That day, I spread out everything I had found on the table in my little kitchen and I closed my eyes. I emptied myself, looked for a corner of calm in the middle of the tumult of my thoughts. And an image appeared behind my eyelids. A puff topped with a cracker and garnished with a passion-chocolate cream. A memory of my adolescence, when I wandered the streets, without a future and without a penny in my pocket. I was fifteen I think. I had passed a pastry shop displaying its marvels in the window. I had seen this cabbage, I had only seen him. He was perfect. Perfectly round, perfectly filled, perfectly enticing, perfectly indulgent. I had imagined its taste on my tongue, this paradise in my mouth. When I got home to my host parents, I asked them if they could buy me something to make one myself. The one who was hosting me simply replied that the race budget was tight and that we couldn't afford to buy everything that came to mind. I didn't insist, she was already nice enough to take in a kid no one really wanted, I wasn't going to risk her not wanting me anymore. So I forgot this cabbage and my somewhat crazy desires to create something with these hands that no one believed in.

 I barely have time to whip the very cold cream to whip it up when behind me, a hell of a racket is already being heard. Small steps hurrying down the hallway, the sound of a comforter dragging on the floor, hanging from a small hand squeezing it hard. I turn around, pan in hand. I'm immediately greeted by my daughter's bright smile as she trots over to me, her long brown hair tangled around her beaming face. I pour the hot chocolate into her purple cup then I draw a beautiful whipped cream flower on the surface of the brown liquid. Sparkling, Mila's eyes follow my every move, fascinated by the spectacle I offer them. I quickly put the pan back on the small cabinet next to the stove before taking my daughter in my arms and planting a huge kiss on her forehead. Then I lower my gaze to match his and wave my hands.

 -Happy birthday my darling, I sign.

 His smile immediately widens. She puts her little arms around my neck, skipping. When she releases me, it's only to plunge her rosy lips into the hot chocolate. She closes her eyes, tastes each flavor that tickles her taste buds. It's not often that I take the time to make her a homemade hot chocolate so she knows how to appreciate it. With a large spoon, she plunges into the whipped cream which she tastes with half-closed eyelids.

 - It's too good dad! she said to me with her small hands.

 At the maternity ward, during a banal deafness test, the pediatrician detected an anomaly in Mila. Several further examinations told me that she was born with a malformation of the inner ear. She hears no sound. Neither the most serious nor the most acute. I never knew where this problem came from, the pediatrician suspected either hereditary deafness or deafness due to damage to the newborn. And given the lifestyle of the one who wore it for nine months, I would rather go for the second solution. But I will never know. She abandoned us on the fifth day of Mila's life.

 After giving myself the same sweet treat as my daughter, I take her favorite pastry out of the fridge: a raspberry and pistachio tart. She was four years old when I tested this flavor blend. I had found a pistachio paste in a delicatessen while we were walking one day. Impossible for me to let her sleep in the radius. After intense reflection, I decided to combine it with fresh raspberries. I made a pistachio shortcrust pastry that I topped with raspberries positioned on a layer of raspberry lime jam. That day, Mila decided that it was her favorite dessert in the whole universe.

 When she sees the pie, she waves her hands in all directions to show her excitement. She immediately gets up on her knees, wringing her neck the better to devour her with her gaze. I laugh, light-hearted.

 -And that's it for my favorite girl! I said, placing a piece of pie on his plate.

 Mila shoves half the pastry in her mouth before answering me.

 -Of course I'm your favorite, you only have me!

 I only have her. What a glaring truth. For six years now, I've only had her. She's right. But that kind of thinking doesn't hurt as much as it used to. I may never have had parents, I may not know where I got that café-au-lait skin I passed on to her, I may never have known the security of a loving home but that doesn't matter anymore. Not like before. Today I have my daughter, my pretty Mila, my ray of sunshine. We live in this tiny, somewhat run-down apartment and we are clearly not rolling in gold but she is my treasure. Love of my life. And yet, nothing had predestined me to become a father so young!

 I was a lost but silent teenager. I didn't make waves, I used to make myself as transparent as possible. I wandered from foster family to foster family without ever being adopted. I'm not complaining, I didn't fall badly. Those who greeted me have always been nice to me. Or at least, they offered me a roof, food and clothing. And I was content with that. How could you hope for better when the only person who was supposed to love you unconditionally never wanted you? I was born under X. This is how my life began. With no one to rave over my cradle. Jacques and Annie, my former tutors, told me for two years that it was better that way. That we do not make this choice without being in a serious situation. That she had probably saved me from a darker fate. And then, if she hadn't abandoned me, I would never have known them. And I would have been deprived of their love, their strength and their benevolence. So maybe they're basically right.

 A social worker enrolled me in a vocational high school when I was sixteen. It is thanks to her that I was placed with Jacques and Annie. It is also thanks to her that I met Bastien, my closest friend. We didn't have much in common, but we became friends right away. Extravagant, always ready to party, he was nonetheless a responsible boy who listened to others. He had no business being in this underside stream and luckily for him, a few professors realized that. His hard work eventually paid off and he returned to a classical curriculum. The day I went back to school without him, I knew I wouldn't stay in school for long. We haven't lost sight of each other. We continued to see each other evenings and weekends. I squatted in his room and his old game console, he dragged me from party to party.

That's how I met Ariane. I was seventeen and no future. That night, I drank too much. Her too. She wasn't particularly beautiful, at least I don't remember fantasizing about her for long hours. She was laughing hard. She moved a lot. Her eyes were blank and her smile was too big to be true. She sported tattooed arms and bleached hair. I don't know why I brought it up. Today, I still wonder. The majority approaching, I knew that my hours were counted at Jacques and Annie. I knew I was going to lose the only family that ever loved me a bit. That I was going to find myself on the street, without studies or work. That night I was sad. Like every night of course, but a little more. So I drank as much as Ariane smoked. Our sorrows met and pushed us towards each other. We slept together but everything is fuzzy in my memories. The only thing I can never forget is her look when she told me she was pregnant four months later.

 I landed in Galway, where I stayed for two months in the studio of Bastien's sister who was studying here. She had gotten me a little job, just enough to pay part of the rent and support my baby. I learned to speak English, to blend into this new life and for almost six years, I only speak the language of Shakespeare. Although I passed on my French roots to my daughter, I chose to focus on our future.

 Since then, I only have her. Mila. My Sunshine. And I've never been happier.

 -Ready to discover your gift, my dear?

 She jumps from her chair, signing countless yeses. I laugh softly as I plant myself behind her, my hand on her eyelids. I guide her to the living room, where she discovers a purple bicycle, with a threadbare leather saddle and a gleaming horn. She hugs me, waves her hands behind my back but I can't read what she's telling me. I then straighten her to look at her hands but my eyes are immediately drawn to hers, where tears of joy are spilling from her eyelids.

 -That's exactly what I wanted ! A purple bike, my favorite color, thank you dad!

 I kiss her, holding her against me for a long minute. Then my daughter starts squirming and asks me if she can go try it.

 - Go get dressed, I'm waiting for you.

 Five minutes later, there she is, pacing the alley in the backyard, proudly posted on her new bike. I watch him tame his bicycle with great ease, a big smile on his face. Sitting on the steps that line the door to the pub's storeroom, I don't take my eyes off her. Her long soft hair twirls with her movements, sometimes standing in front of her eyes, forcing her to let go of the handlebars to chase them away. She has my black eyes and my long eyelashes. She has her mother's thin lips and high cheekbones. She is not very tall but she is so beautiful.

 Behind me, the pub is asleep. Abbigail, my boss, has an old fashioned side: she refuses to work on Sundays. I'm not complaining, I can at least enjoy a full day with my daughter. I met her almost four years ago. I accumulated odd jobs and money problems. She needed someone to help her run her pub since her husband died. She didn't take offense at my lack of experience, I didn't hold it against her for her gruff and authoritarian side. She handed me a tea towel and asked me to wipe glasses. And it was gone. A month later, she offered me to leave the hovel I had found with difficulty in Galway, in which humidity and mold were fighting a duel. She handed me the keys to our current apartment and I agreed to come and live in Kinvara. It's not big, not modern, not even bright but it's healthy and located just above the pub. Then I can let Mila sleep and start my shift one floor lower in the morning. I can leave for fifteen minutes to walk my daughter to school. Abbi even allows me to spend a few hours selling my creations to tea time customers on weekends.

 - Dad, can we go for a ride on the harbor with my bike? she asks me with her nimble hands.

 I nod my head and we set off. The air is humid, as often here, but the weather is nice today. Kinvara wakes up to the generous rays of the sun. Mila walks the streets with ease while I watch her. We advance in the middle of colorful buildings, crossing pink, red, yellow, blue or green storefronts, before arriving at the port where a few boats are paddling. Most of them left at dawn to fish in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. The view of the bay is breathtaking. Mila zigzags between the passers-by who greet us happily then she heads towards the Donguaire Castle, cutting across the fields. I struggle to follow her but to see her so free, so happy, fills me with unprecedented happiness.

 After a good hour of walking, we end up landing in the middle of a blueberry field.

 -So, do you like your new bike?

 - Oh yes dad, he is perfect! Did you see how fast I drive? Faster than a rocket!

 I laugh at his enthusiasm. Her pretty hands move in all directions, I can barely follow her flow of words.

 - And my horn, it's too beautiful! Even though I can't hear it, I see people's reactions when I activate it and it's so funny. Earlier, on the port, there is an old grandpa who almost fell into the water, he was so surprised!

 Even though I learned sign language several years ago, I'm not always very comfortable when she signs the signs so quickly. Luckily for me, Mila still manages to read lips a bit.

 -Be careful though, I don't want to end up in prison because of a horn!

 My daughter's face suddenly loses all its lightness.

 -You... you could really go to prison because of me?

 -Not for a horn, no. It was just a joke, don't worry. What if we discovered Uncle Bastien's gift instead?

 -Tonton Bastien sent me a present? Where is he ? Give me the ! I want it !

 I pretend to display a mysterious expression as I get up but my daughter blocks me on the ground and climbs me, tickling me. She knows I can't stand her attacks. I laugh my breath away, yelling at her to spare me but she doesn't hear me. She can only read my false distress on my face before deciding to spare me. She shifts and I straighten up. I pull a package from the inside pocket of my jacket.

 -What is that ? she raves while tearing the packaging. Ohh! A kitchen apron! With my name embroidered on it! And also something written there... it's so cool! I'll put it on every time we cook together!

 -Let's go back, sweetheart. We can connect and thank uncle if he's online.

 The return trip is as pleasant as the outward trip. When we go along the port again, I am stopped by a fisherman, a regular at the pub. He returns from his morning fishing and offers me a bag filled with a salmon and some shellfish.

 Mila is chatting with Bastien on Skype while I cook the fish next to her. In impeccable French, she explains to my friend how beautiful her bike is and that it surely has a magic power because it propels her at full speed. I imagine the silly smile of his interlocutor who has always been under the spell of my daughter.

 She turns to me to moan about the internet connection and the antiquity that we use as a computer. I just shrug my shoulders but inside, it touches me. Because it's an old machine I got from Abbi, because I can't afford a new one just like I couldn't afford to buy her a bike in the store. So when I found this old abandoned bicycle, I saw there my chance to please my daughter. I sanded it, cleaned it, and painted it purple. I changed the tires and thanks to a patron in the pub I found a little purple glitter horn. I know my daughter is over the moon, but somehow I can't help but feel bad for not being able to give her better.

 Mila snaps me out of my thoughts by patting my arm. His little hands ask me if I'm available to talk to Bastien. I close the door of the oven in which our meal is simmering before settling down in front of the computer. Mila leaves to play in her room.

 -Mila seems to have appreciated her gifts! intones my friend into the microphone that I have just switched on.

 - Yes, she was very happy, thank you again for her.

 - You speak, I am incapable of not sending him anything. It makes me as happy as it does her. Well, what's up in Ireland Louis?

 -Always the same routine. But the holidays are over, school starts tomorrow. This will be his first year in Primary School.

 -Already ? But just yesterday, she was learning to walk!

 - We are far from it my friend! Today, it is she who makes me walk!

 Bastien laughs but he's not fooled. He senses my stress through the screen.

 -Are you worried?

 -A little. Serious things are starting, she will have to manage important learning. Reading, writing, arithmetic... I don't want her to be in trouble.

 -Don't go defeatist. Trust him, your daughter has always done well in Playschool, there's no reason for that to change.

 -I know but...

 -Don't let your bad experiences put pressure on her that she doesn't need.

 Mechanically, I push my glasses up my nose. I know my friend is right but I'm so scared of being off the mark, I can't make up my mind.

 -We'll see how the first few days go.

 We talk for another ten minutes before my daughter rushes into the kitchen, begging me to fill her empty stomach. After a good meal, she blows out her six candles and devours no less than three slices of pie. We spend the afternoon curled up on the couch, flipping between his favorite cartoons and his favorite cable cooking show.

 - It was the most beautiful birthday day. Thank you dad, she signs with half-closed eyes when I tuck her in at nightfall.

 His words are planted directly in my heart. I gently close the door to her bedroom, ready to face another evening of loneliness, my nose buried in my piping bags. Even if everything is not perfect, even if I never manage to give her everything she deserves, my daughter is happy. And each new day is a small additional victory over my past.

 -Hurry up Mila, we're going to be late!

 My daughter raises her nose from her bowl of muesli to glance at the clock. 7:45 a.m. She just looks at me as if I've lost my mind and plunges back into her reverie. I can't stand still. I barely slept all night, I ran my hands through my hair so much it felt like I stuck my fingers in an electrical outlet and knocked everything out trying to make breakfast . If I tend to be a little clumsy in normal times, my clumsiness is more than exacerbated on days of great stress. And today is typically a very stressful day.

 Mila is going back to primary school, the equivalent of primary school in France. No more days spent doing puzzles and writing your first name. This year, she will learn to read, write, count and so many other things. I know she has always been a good student but I have the impression that what awaits her now is on another level. And given my disastrous experience with the school system, I'm afraid she'll follow in my footsteps and drop out quickly.

 I take a deep breath to try to put my thoughts in place. My story has nothing to do with his. Maybe by dint of repeating this mantra to myself, it will eventually get into my skull? So far, anyway, it's been a failure. I distractedly pull up my glasses, looking around me. His midday snack is ready, his satchel too. His clean, ironed uniform awaits him after breakfast. The supplies we asked for are already stored in his kit. His shoes are polished. Everything is under control. Except maybe my anxiety.

 -Would you like a glass of orange juice?

 Mila puts her index finger and thumb together, waving her wrist in approval. I grab a glass and fill it with freshly squeezed juice. When I put it in front of her, it slips out of my hands and the liquid spills onto the table. I growl out loud to vent all my frustration. As I fervently mop the tablecloth, my daughter puts her hand on my bicep. His big black eyes question me silently. I stop immediately. She takes the opportunity to tie her little fingers to mine and guide me to the living room where she snuggles against me on the sofa.

 -Why are you so nervous dad this morning? Is it because of school?

 - Yes, I admitted a little embarrassed.

 -Looks like you're scared. But of what ? You think I'm going to suck, right?

 In his eyes, I read all his disappointment. And it breaks my heart.

 -Of course not my darling, I know very well that you will not be zero. You will manage like a chef. It's just that... I didn't have very good memories of my time at school. It's weird that it's your turn. And I don't want it to be hard for you like it was for me.

 -You know, if Ella is in my class, then I'm sure I'll have a good year.

 Ella has been his best friend since attending school. I also hope they will be together but normally, we shouldn't have any surprises. Our small village does not allow the opening of a multitude of classes.

 -You are right. I'm sure you two will work well together.

 My daughter hugs her arms tightly around my chest. I dig my nose into his hair as I hug him back. I really need to relax.

 -Dad ?

 She sits up to implore me with her puppy dog ​​look. Oh oh oh...

 -If you're really too worried, you can make me some blueberry muffins. I can't have a bad day if I eat one of your snack muffins!

 I burst out laughing, lightening a little the noose that has been compressing my chest since yesterday.

 -Obviously !

 Eyes sparkling with mischief, Mila returns to the kitchen to finish her breakfast. And like the impressionable father that I am, I'm already recapitulating the list of ingredients needed to make these famous muffins to check that I have everything I need in my cupboards.

 About thirty minutes later, I close the door behind us and we start walking for school. On the way, we follow in the footsteps of dozens of children in black and gray uniforms, accompanied by parents with tense smiles, all flowing in the same direction. It takes us no more than five minutes to reach the red and white building. With its sloping roof and black tiles, it blends in perfectly with the typically Celtic decor of our village. Mila finds her friend Ella, they jump into each other's arms with so much joy that my smile relaxes a little. My daughter signs how happy she is to find her and Ella does not waste a second to answer her with her hands, even if she is still a little clumsy sometimes.

 Mila has always been educated in a traditional school. I fought so that she was not relegated to a specialized establishment for the deaf and hard of hearing because, on the one hand, I did not want us to have to move and on the other hand, I thought it was important that she founded in an open social group, representative of the society in which she will evolve throughout her life. And I'm pretty happy with the result. She adapts to each interlocutor she meets. She always manages to make herself understood or to communicate.

 Ella's mother, who had gone away for a few moments to consult the lists, returns with a big smile. The girls are already jumping in all directions, delighted that their wish has been granted.

 "They're together," she confirms.

 The establishment does not accept an incalculable number of children but it divides them into classes of a maximum of fifteen pupils. This is a real plus for all these young people who are offered privileged learning conditions. Well, that's what the director promised me when I registered Mila in June.

 -Dad, my daughter calls out to me, catching my gaze. You can leave me now, I'm grown up, I can go to class on my own.

 -Out of the question ! It's your first day, I'm not leaving you at the gate.

 -Corn...

 -Let's go, I cut it without more ceremony.

 I rush into the crowd that has formed around the gate. A supervisor verifies the identity of each person wishing to enter the establishment. We patiently wait until our turn. Once past the control, we head to the first class of the main corridor. Ella and her mom precede us, chatting happily. Mila is silent but calm. She observes her new environment with great attention. His small hand gently squeezes mine.

 For my part, I do everything to hide my anxiety. I put on a smirk – which should probably look more like a tense grin – and I move forward quietly. When we enter the corridor, the yellowish light from the neon lights on the ceiling attacks my retinas. I pull up my glasses as a bulwark but my hand is shaking. I am ridiculous. The only dad stressed by the return to school of his six-year-old daughter!

 A young woman with long fair hair greets the students at the entrance to the classroom. I imagine it is the mistress. Mila locates her locker with a label showing her first name. She puts down her jacket, her satchel and her lunch. Then she turns to me and her gaze hides nothing from me. A mixture of excitement and apprehension twirls in his black eyes. I kneel down and run a hand over her long black hair that cascades over her shoulders. My other hand gently caresses the dull skin of her cheek to reassure her. I speak quietly to make sure she can read the words on my lips.

 -Everything will be alright. You are with Ella. I'll pick you up at 3 p.m. and you'll tell me everything, okay?

 -Okay, she signs without succeeding in hiding the jerk of her hands.

 -I love you.

 -I love you too dad.

 A kiss on the forehead and she turns to join her comrades. Her teacher offers a smiling hello to all the students who pass in front of her. I'm waiting for the hallway to empty out a little to introduce myself. The problem is, I hate doing this. I'm not really comfortable with people I don't know and my lack of confidence can quickly lead me to talk nonsense. So I worry about myself. I have no intention of making a fool of myself in front of my daughter's mistress.

 -Good Hello. II am the father of Mi-mila Perret. Excuse me for disturbing you, but I, uh I, well, I don't know if, if the principal warned you that, that my daughter was d-deaf and...

 -I am aware, she replies in a soft voice.

 My gaze trails to the ground. I feel silly in front of her and I'm already flushing.

 -Ah, okay, per-perfect. I... well, you, you can suddenly...?

 I don't even know how to finish my sentence. Damn, what a grotesque spectacle I offer him! It's exactly because of this kind of moment that I usually never approach anyone.

 -I was assigned to Mila's class because I speak sign language. Don't worry, your daughter will be able to follow like all the other students, I will be very attentive to that.

 -Okay, m-thanks, I mumbled before taking leave without giving him time to answer.

 I hurry out of this hallway before sinking deeper. When I'm nervous, I tend to stutter. And stuttering only makes me more nervous because I am well aware that I look like an idiot. But I can't control myself. This tic has followed me since childhood and I have never managed to get rid of it.

 As a child, I was the target of all the teasing in the schoolyard. The other kids had fun despising my skin color and my life in foster care just to force me to react, to speak in public. To stutter in front of them. To show them my weaknesses and give them something to ridicule me for several days. So I grew up becoming transparent. Not making waves was my watchword. I still live like that today. At the pub, I remain cloistered in my kitchen or behind the sink. I listen to conversations, I respond when someone talks to me, but I don't take center stage. I do not know how to do. I do not like it.

 Over the years I have made a few friends here. I go out every once in a while for a pint with Matthew, Jane, Erin, Thomas and Charlie. I always like to share an evening with them but I always remain slightly behind. I think I don't really know how to let others approach me anymore.

 It's lost in my memories that I head for the port. I often come here to clear my mind with the salty air. I like to watch the Galway hookers, these traditional Irish fishing boats, perfectly designed to brave the rough waters of the region. Their red sails and dark hull. The strength and tranquility that emanates from these boats. This morning, the sky is covered with gray clouds. The wind rushes into the hookers' sails. Passers-by do not linger on their way like yesterday. It is no longer the time to stroll, except for me who is not working today.

 The view of the bay calms the tumult of my thoughts. When I feel calmer again, I take a detour to the convenience store and then go home. I think about sweet ideas that I want to realize. Of course, I'm going to prepare the muffins that Mila asked me to do, but I'd also like to test new alliances to offer new pastries at tea time. I bring my ingredients back to the kitchen of the pub that I invest in to give free rein to my imagination. The hours go by to the rhythm of my lashes. Flour settles on my glasses as I push them up my nose. The sleeves of my shirt that I pulled up over my forearms are coated in the same white powder but I'm too focused to care. I trap a Joconde biscuit between two red fruit mousses while small praline meringues gild the pill. Abbi, who lives next door, sticks her head through the crack in the door to greet me.

 - Still cooking?