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They don't seem bothered by silence.

I like that.

Mae used to be comfortable with quiet too.

Addy wasn't.

Addy filled every silence with stories.

Or songs.

Or questions.

Sometimes all three at once.

I roll another piece of dough.

Arthur watches me.

“Who taught you?”

“Mae and Addy.”

“Both?”

“Mostly Mae at first. Addy was better at decorating.”

“What was she like?”

I stop.

Nobody has asked me that since she died.

People asked what happened to her.

They asked about her medication.

Her depression.

Whether she had been drinking.

Whether she left a note.

Nobody asked what she was like.

I look down at the dough.

“Funny.”

Arthur smiles.

“Yeah?”

“She could make anything funny. Even things that weren't.”

I sprinkle sugar over the pastry.

“She sang badly.”