When I was a kid, I dreamed of being adopted. By the Happy Hollisters. Mr. and Mrs. Hollister already had five kids; what’s one more? My dad ran off before my legs grew long enough to follow. Mom loved him, which made her hate him for leaving her behind. She soothed her rage with whiskey, directing daily dramas from the kitchen of our split-level house, at war with a new man. I’d lie low in my bedroom, sprawled on my twin bed with its JCPenney sky blue polyester bedspread, devouring all the Happy Hollister books in the series. And when I finished, I’d read them again. 

Mr. Hollister is a family man. He comes home every day from the hardware store, and his kids rush to greet him. The littlest ones grab hold of his legs, and the oldest reach for his hat and coat. Mrs. Hollister watches from the kitchen doorway, gazing at her brood gathered round their dad, exchanging smiles with her husband as if saying, “Aren’t we the lucky ones?”

The kids spend their summer days solving neighborhood mysteries, but I stay home with Mrs. Hollister, baking cookies. I perch on a stool at the kitchen island, inhaling the smell of chocolate mixed with the scent of flowers from her perfume. I watch her graceful hands work the dough, rolling teaspoon-size pieces between her palms to form perfect little balls. She gently places each one on the cookie sheet and asks me to set the timer. She washes the dishes, and I dry them, carefully returning the bowl and utensils to their places. And then, when the timer rings, we wait ten long minutes for cooling. Mrs. Hollister pours me a glass of cold milk, refills her coffee cup, and lets me choose the first cookie. She takes one too, bites into it, careful not to smudge her pink lipstick, and says, “These are the best ones yet.” And I nod my head, not wanting to talk because the warm chocolate chips are melting in my mouth, and they taste so good.