was terrible at cooking but made the same thing every Saturday morning: pancakes, too thick, slightly burned on the bottom. And while he made them, he hummed.
It was always the same song. He’d made it up himself, years before Caleb was born, on a long night shift when he was bored and missing me. It didn’t have a real name. We just called it the Saturday song.
It started out as humming. Then over the years, words got added. Some of them were David’s. Some of them were mine.
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