In My Rearview Mirror, JACK.HUGHES

EIGHTEEN

"Oh, and that's him at the Little Red River Park," she says, her finger tracing the contours of the picture. The image captures a younger Braden, full of youthful exuberance, surrounded by the beauty of the park.

As she speaks, I catch a soft sigh from Braden behind me, but it only serves to add to the charm of the moment. I turn my attention back to the photo, captivated by the innocence reflected in Braden's eyes.

"Kelly, how old was he in this one?" Braden's mother inquires, her eyes bright with affection, her finger now guiding us to another photo showcasing Braden proudly holding a trophy. Braden's father, a hint of nostalgia in his voice, takes a moment before responding.

"On this one, he has to be ten, I believe," he says, his fingers gently rubbing his chin as if trying to summon the exact memories of that particular moment. The room is filled with a sense of shared history and love, each photograph a picture of Braden's journey through the years.

"My god, I remember those little hockey stick we all used to play with," says Cedric with a tone of nostalgia. I nod in agreement, because I do remember that one time I was so mad to my brother that I slapped him with it. 

The photo album becomes a portal, transporting us to moments that shaped Braden, and the air is charged with the warmth of shared memories.

The room is filled with a subtle clinking sound as I take a sip from the cheap wine, hastily purchased at the nearby grocery store. Two weeks ago, I made a promise to myself to abstain from drinking, and for a while, I kept to that commitment. 

However, on my way to Braden's apartment this afternoon, nerves got the better of me, and the allure of a glass of wine as a calming elixir became too tempting to resist. The liquor store was closed, so I settled for a quick stop at the market down the street, and now I find myself on my second drink.

A mix of guilt and a strange kind of liberation lingers in the air as I smile at Braden's parents. "Okay, enough, it's the second album you're showing her, Mom," Braden grumbles under his breath, a hint of irritation in his tone. I can't help but giggle at his mild protest, acknowledging the slight buzz that has settled in.

"I love it, but it's time for me to check on the turkey, guys," I say, gracefully gliding towards the kitchen with my wine glass in hand. The rich aroma of roasting turkey fills the air, intermingling with the soft hum of conversation from the living room. The kitchen is a haven of activity, with pots simmering and pans sizzling on the stove.

As I busy myself with the culinary preparations, I steal a moment to appreciate the photos and the laughter echoing from the other room. The wine, despite its humble origin, adds a subtle warmth to the occasion, in this temporary deviation from sobriety. 

The warm glow of the oven light bathes the kitchen, and I reach over to illuminate the golden and juicy turkey that I had skillfully prepared. It sits there, a culinary masterpiece, its aroma filling the air with promises of a delicious feast. "Wow, who made this?" Braden's mother inquires, her eyes widening in appreciation, as she takes in the sight of the perfectly cooked turkey.

"I did," I respond proudly, my chest swelling with a sense of accomplishment. The pastries I made earlier this morning also catch her eye, arranged on a platter nearby, inviting and delectable. 

Cooking has always been a skill that runs in my family. From a young age, I learned the art of creating exquisite pastries, a talent that seems to have been passed down through generations. Memories flood my mind as I share the origins of my culinary prowess. 

"My mother was the one cooking in my house," I explain, a fond smile playing on my lips. "She used to prepare three-course dinners with my grandma on the weekends when we were young."