Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 43787 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43787 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
And now, here I am, keeping her memory alive, one cake at a time. My childhood wasn’t filled with traumas of abuse or neglect. Outside of the absence of my mother and father, I had a relatively normal upbringing under the care of my grandparents. Apparently, my mother and father left me behind with my grandparents who raised me while neither of my actual parents ever looked back. I don’t understand it. How can anyone leave their baby when they don’t even know them? I can’t imagine walking away from my family or my child. There was a time when it would bother me. Not anymore now. In fact, I find it to be a gift. They weren’t ready to be parents obviously and my life is better for their sacrifice. I’m simply thankful for my grandparents. The dedication they have given to see me thrive as a child and now an adult is something I’ll never be able to repay them for.
My grandparents immigrated from Russia before having my mother. She was born and raised in the Florida panhandle. It wasn’t until my grandmother got dementia that we left Florida. The facility grandpa found for her specialized in memory patients. She’s been gone seven years now and there isn’t a day I don’t miss her. Grandpa moved us to Freedom Falls to be closer to her. Watching her forget us, forget herself was hard and as much as I miss her, I know she’s in a better place.
Grandpa and I aren’t the same without her that is for certain though. While I am close with my grandfather, the bond I had with my grandmother isn’t one to be forgotten. The love they shared … it’s the kind a person dreams of. If a man ever looks at me with half the love in their gaze my grandpa has even talking about her memory, then I’ll be a lucky lady.
The front door chimes just as the sun begins its slow rise over town. I glance up from the Medovik cake I’m frosting, knowing exactly who it is before I even see him.
“Dedushka,” I call, smiling as my grandfather steps inside.
Konstantin Vasiliev is an imposing man, even at seventy-three. He carries himself with an old-world elegance, his sharp blue eyes always watchful, always knowing. But to me, he’s never been intimidating. He is warmth, protection, and quiet strength wrapped in a crisp button-up and slacks, his silver hair neatly combed back.
“My sweet Alaina,” he greets, his voice rich with the accent he’s never lost. “I smell honey.”
I laugh, waving my frosting spatula in the air. “You always do.” This is our routine as well and I cherish this weekly ritual.
He chuckles, taking a seat at the counter. “That is because you make the best Medovik cake outside of Moscow.” His eyes twinkle, but there’s something wistful in them. He always gets like this when I make my grandmother’s favorite cake.
I set a fresh slice in front of him, watching as he picks up the fork with reverence. “It’s still her recipe,” I say softly and fondly. This is the first recipe she ever taught me to make from beginning to end.
“And she would be proud,” he murmurs, taking his first bite. He closes his eyes for a moment, savoring the layers of thin cake that is almost like a cookie with a honey and sour cream frosting blend.
This is our tradition. Every week, my grandfather stops by for a slice of Medovik and a cup of black coffee. He’s been my biggest supporter, the one who believed in my dream enough to back me financially when I had nothing but a business plan and a passion for baking. Paying for grandma’s facility wiped out his savings. It wasn’t easy since I was still in high school when she had to go to the nursing home. He had to carry a mortgage, our utilities, keep me clothed and all my school stuff, while paying the monthly fee for her care. It killed him not to keep her at home, but when the dementia got to the point of her not eating and getting violent with us, decisions had to be made.
Sometimes I think it haunts him that he couldn’t keep her with us. There was a time I would lay awake worrying over her and hating the separation. Then I would see her and in the moments she was lucid, she said she was at peace with it. Even on the hard days she still gave my hand a squeeze like she did when I was little and she could somehow sense I was uncomfortable.
I feel the emotions building inside me thinking of her memories.
“How is business?” he asks, stirring his coffee.
“Steady,” I say, leaning on the counter. “I’ve got a wedding order next weekend and a baby shower cake for Sunday.”