Chapter 3 The Goodbye Almost Baked.

POV: Naila (First Person'

The morning after the call felt unreal.

I stood in the kitchen barefoot, my fingers resting on the rim of the mixing bowl. The scent of cloves and cardamom swirled through the air, warm and nostalgic. My mom's favorite spiced tea bread was in the oven, just starting to rise.

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

But it wasn't.

Because everything was about to change.

Outside, the soft hush of early morning drifted through the cracked kitchen window. A delivery truck rumbled by on the street below, someone's dog barked from the next yard, and the smell of coffee from a neighbor's apartment mingled with the cinnamon in ours.

I glanced around the kitchen-our kitchen-with its faded yellow walls, chipped tile floors, and the crooked clock that had ticked five minutes fast since I was in middle school. Every inch of it whispered memories.

And now I was leaving it.

I heard soft footsteps behind me and turned.

My mom stood at the doorway, robe wrapped tight, scarf already in place, as if she'd been up for hours. Her face was calm, but her eyes carried that quiet ache I'd come to recognize-equal parts pride and pain.

"You used the clove?" she asked, her voice low.

I nodded. "Like you showed me."

She stepped closer, arms folded gently. "It smells like you're leaving already."

We both glanced at the oven, watching the bread rise like it carried all the emotions we weren't saying. The silence was thick, not uncomfortable, but full.

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

"I know," she said simply.

"What if I get there and mess it up? What if they expect a professional, and I forget everything I know the minute I walk into that kitchen?"

Her lips tugged into the tiniest smile. "Then you remember who you are. You've been cooking since you were barely tall enough to reach the stove. This-what you do with food-it's not just skill. It's instinct. You've always had it."

I swallowed. "I just don't want to let anyone down."

"You won't," she said. "You're not walking into that opportunity empty-handed. You're carrying everything we've ever been. Everything you've worked for. And no one can take that from you."

I looked down at my hands. "Do you think he would be proud?"

That question always hovered around moments like this. Not just asked, but felt. Heavy. Lingering.

She sighed, a smile laced with memory pulling at her mouth. "He'd be overwhelmed. Not just proud. He'd probably cry into his coffee, then brag to every stranger at the grocery store. He always said you'd make it out of here. That you'd do something beautiful."

My chest tightened. "I miss him."

She rested her hand on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "So do I."

The oven beeped.

I opened the door, and the warm rush of sweet air filled the room. The loaf was golden-brown, its top cracked slightly just enough to show how soft it was inside.

I pulled it out and placed it on the cooling rack.

My mom tore a corner from the edge and held it out to me.

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

I blinked fast, but a tear still slipped out.

I didn't wipe it away.

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

I took a bite. The bread was soft and warm, the spices gentle and familiar. Like comfort and courage all at once.

"Then we make every minute taste like love," I said.

And we did.

That day, we spent hours in the kitchen-not preparing for anyone, just cooking together like we used to. I made her favorite pasta with lemon herb cream sauce. She showed me how to get the perfect golden sear on her version of grilled salmon. We laughed at old inside jokes, told stories we both knew by heart, and filled our small space with so much warmth it felt like time had paused for us.

Later that evening, we curled up on the couch with mugs of tea and leftovers in our laps. An old movie played quietly in the background, but we weren't really watching.

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

I nodded. "Kiki sent me the itinerary. I fly out in ten days."

She looked down into her cup. "I always knew you'd go. I just didn't think it'd happen all at once."

"Me neither."

A beat of silence passed between us.

"Promise me something?" she asked.

"Anything."

"No matter how big your life gets-no matter how fancy the kitchen, or how high the ceilings-don't let go of what made you start."

I reached for her hand. "I won't."

That night, I laid in bed with my suitcase open beside me, half-packed. I held a framed photo of us from years ago-her standing behind me in the kitchen, my hands in flour, both of us smiling wide.

This was the beginning.

And it already tasted like something I would never forget.