Samantha.
Beside it was a bouquet of yellow roses.
Mom’s favorite.
My eyes filled.
“It’s the best blade I’ve ever forged,” Dad said.
“Not because the steel is perfect.”
He smiled.
“Because I made it for you.”
I hugged him.
Not long afterward, several cooks arrived.
Some had worked with me years earlier.
Others had recently left The Hearth.
One woman tied her apron and looked at me.
“Chef Samantha, we want to work somewhere the food matters—and where people aren’t humiliated just to keep their jobs.”
I opened the kitchen door.
“There’s room.”
At eight, our first customers arrived.
The dining room filled with the smell of fresh bread, herbs, stock, roasted meat, and onions hitting hot pans.
From the pass, I saw Dad speaking with Chef Harrison near the window.
Charles sat quietly at a table farther back.
No special treatment.
No demands.
