“Ouch!” I yelped, pulling my hand back sharply from the oven. My worn kitchen mitten had given way, leaving a stinging burn on my skin. Annoyed, I moved to the sink, running cool water over the angry red mark.

“Did you hurt yourself, Miss?” Dahlia’s voice, warm and familiar, drifted in from the doorway.

“Oh, it’s just a little burn,” I replied, trying to sound nonchalant, but the wince on my face betrayed me. Dahlia, ever the caretaker, quickly rummaged through the cupboards. In moments, she had my hand gently in hers, dabbing cool honey onto the wound.

“My mom always did this,” she explained softly, her eyes distant with memory. “You’ll heal just fine.” I watched her, a pang of affection for this woman who was more mother than housekeeper. She was a constant, steady presence in my whirlwind life, especially now.

“You were baking potatoes?” she asked, returning the honey jar.

“Yes, John’s favorite,” I said, a blush creeping up my neck. I glanced at my phone, his smiling face, my wallpaper, making my own smile widen. My John. My world. We were almost there. Almost married. Almost forever.