Hey there,
I woke up this morning craving the smell of my dad's famous pancakes sizzling on the griddle. It's been months since I last had a taste of his cooking, ever since he moved out and left Mom and me behind. Don't get me wrong, Mom tries her best in the kitchen, but there's just something about Dad's meals that can't be replicated.
I remember how every Sunday morning, Dad would wake up early to whip up a batch of fluffy pancakes topped with fresh berries and drizzled with maple syrup. The sound of bacon crackling in the skillet would fill our small kitchen as he hummed along to some old tune playing on the radio. Those were simpler times when we were all under one roof – before things fell apart.
Nowadays, Sundays feel empty without Dad around. Mom does her best to keep us fed and happy, but it's not quite the same. There's a certain warmth that comes from sharing a meal cooked by someone who loves you unconditionally.
I miss watching Dad expertly flip pancakes in the air while joking about how he could join a circus as a pancake artist. I miss sitting at our worn-out kitchen table with him across from me, chatting about school or whatever was on my mind at the time.
It wasn't just his cooking that I miss; it was his presence too – his laughter filling our home with joy and comfort. Now all we have are memories captured in faded photographs scattered throughout our house.
As much as I wish things could go back to how they used to be, I know deep down that life moves forward whether we're ready for it or not. People change, families evolve, and sometimes distance is necessary for healing wounds that run deep.
So today as I sit here typing away on my laptop reminiscing about days gone by when Dad ruled over Sunday breakfasts like a culinary king - flipping pancakes like an acrobat - I find solace in knowing that those memories will always live on within me no matter where life takes us next.
Until then, Oliver Afton