Chapter 3 The Goodbye Almost Baked.

POV: Naila (First Person)

The morning after the call felt like standing between two worlds.

I stood in the kitchen barefoot, my fingers resting on the rim of the mixing bowl, the scent of cloves and cardamom curling up into the air like old memories. My mom's favorite spiced tea bread was in the oven, just beginning to rise, softening the whole apartment with its warmth.

It was the kind of morning that should've felt normal.

But it wasn't.

Because everything was about to change.

The hum of the fridge, the distant bark of a neighbor's dog, the rattle of a delivery truck groaning down the street-all of it felt like background noise to something I couldn't name. The light coming through the window was soft, yellow with early sun, brushing over the chipped counter like a final kiss goodbye.

I turned and looked around the kitchen-our kitchen.

Faded yellow walls with that one stubborn stain near the stove that never came out, no matter how much lemon I scrubbed it with. The crooked clock above the fridge, still ticking five minutes too fast. The corner spice rack my dad built by hand when I was ten. It all looked the same. But now, it felt different.

Like I was seeing it from the edge of memory.

I felt her presence before I saw her-soft slippers padding down the hallway, the slight shuffle that always meant she was coming with either advice or affection.

I turned just as my mother entered the kitchen, wrapped in her robe, her scarf already pinned into place, like she'd been up for hours watching the day unfold.

She stood in the doorway, arms crossed gently. Her eyes found the bowl in front of me and the rising warmth in the room.

"You used the spice?" she asked, her voice quiet.

I nodded, keeping my eyes on the oven. "Like you showed me."

She came closer and leaned against the edge of the counter. "It smells like you're leaving already."

I looked down, pressing a hand to the cold marble. "I know."

The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was the kind that filled up a room like steam-soft, warm, but impossible to ignore.

We both stared at the oven, the bread rising like it carried the weight of every unspoken feeling between us.

"I'm scared, Mom," I finally whispered.

"I know," she said.

"What if I mess it up? What if they expect some trained culinary genius and I forget everything the moment I walk into that kitchen? What if they realize I don't belong?"

"You do belong," she said, turning toward me. "You've been creating magic in kitchens since before you knew how to spell béchamel."

I laughed a little at that.

"You're not just talented, Naila," she continued. "You're intuitive. You taste with your soul. That's not something any school can teach. And it's not something anyone can take away."

"I just... I don't want to disappoint you."

Her gaze softened. "You won't."

"But it's so fast. It doesn't feel real yet."

"That's how you know it's real."

I swallowed, feeling the lump in my throat build. "Do you think Dad would be proud?"

That question had always lived in the back of my heart-quietly, but ever present. Especially on mornings like this.

She smiled, soft and wistful. "He'd be overwhelmed. Do you remember when you made your first soufflé which did not deflate, that your father squeeze it into every hear in the neighborhood

My eyes burned. "I miss him."

"So do I," she said, reaching out to squeeze my shoulder. "Every single day."

The oven beeped.

I turned and opened it, and the smell hit us both in the face-warm, spiced, nostalgic. The loaf had risen perfectly, golden brown with a slight crack at the top.

I set it gently on the cooling rack. My mom tore a small piece from the edge and handed it to me.

"For the road," she said with a bittersweet smile.

I blinked fast, but a tear slipped out anyway. I didn't wipe it away.

"Three weeks," she whispered. "That's all I have left to keep you to myself."

I took the bite. The bread melted on my tongue-soft, sweet, comforting. Like cinnamon, and love, and history.

"Then let's make every minute taste like love," I said.

And we did.

That day, we didn't plan. We didn't pack. We just cooked.

She made her favorite creamy tomato lasagna, and I made my roasted garlic plantain hash. We brewed tea and stood over the stove like we used to, bumping shoulders and laughing over memories we'd told each other a hundred times.

We danced in our tiny kitchen to a song that played through static on the old radio. We fought playfully over how much salt to add to the soup. She corrected my folding technique for dumplings-for the thousandth time. I pretended not to care. But I listened.

For hours, time slowed.

We didn't rush it.

We savored it.

And later that night, we curled up on the couch under a shared blanket, with reheated leftovers in mismatched bowls. The TV played an old Korean drama in the background. But we weren't watching. Just sitting. Breathing.

Her head rested lightly on my shoulder.

"Your plane ticket came through," she said quietly.

"I know. Kiki sent the full itinerary. I leave in ten days."

She nodded, barely. "I always knew you'd go. I just didn't think it'd feel this fast."

I wrapped the blanket tighter around us. "Me neither."

A long silence passed.

"Promise me something?" she asked.

"Anything."

"No matter how far you go... or how fancy the kitchen gets... don't forget the reason you started."

I looked down at our empty bowls. At the photo of Dad still on the wall.

"I won't," I whispered.

That night, I lay in bed with my suitcase open and clothes half-folded beside it. On my chest was a photo of us in the kitchen from years ago. I was maybe thirteen, face covered in flour. She was behind me, arms around mine, helping me knead dough. Both of us were laughing.

And in that moment, I knew-

This wasn't just the start of a new chapter.

This was a legacy...

Seasoned with love.