Bridget turned on the burner underneath the frying pan and added a tablespoon each of butter and olive oil as the recipe instructed. After the butter melted, she slid in the chopped onion. It landed with a sizzle. Next she used her fingernail to separate four cloves from a head of garlic. Following Ajay’s directions, she hit them with the side of the knife to loosen the skin.

At the sound of her dad’s voice, she jumped. She hadn’t even heard him come in.

“What’s all this?” With a grin that didn’t disguise his exhaustion, he set down his suitcase and commuter backpack.

“I’m making dinner.”

“By yourself?” He raised an eyebrow. “Is this from one of those meal kit companies?”

“Stop it!” Bridget shook the knife mock-threateningly. “It’s from a real recipe for butter chicken that Ajay gave me. And I braved the Thanksgiving crowds at a real grocery store to buy the ingredients.” As his expression changed, she added, “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” He looked away.

“Tell me.”

“It’s just the way you move your hands when you talk. You look so like your mom.”

Bridget’s memories of the time before her mother got sick were tattered and faded. But if she wanted to know what she would look like as an adult, all she had to do was check out the half-dozen framed photographs on the walls. Every year, she and her dad got older and further away from the people they’d been in those photos, while her mother stayed exactly the same. And every year, Bridget looked more like her. The same heart-shaped face. The same snub nose. The same milk-pale skin. The same russet hair that curled at the ends.

Her dad stepped into the kitchen. “Can I help?”

“Sure.” She looked back down at the recipe. “Can you grate a couple of tablespoons of ginger?”

He gave the onions a stir and then peeled the knob of ginger. Bridget hadn’t even known you needed to do that. She began mincing the garlic. “Mince” sounded smaller than “dice,” so she chopped the cloves fine. The savory smell once she added them to the skillet made her mouth flood with water. Next to her, her dad grated shreds of ginger into the pan, making everything smell even better.

“Sorry I was late.” He sighed. “My second flight was delayed, and then my phone ran out of battery. At least I had a chance to catch up on paperwork.” He called it paperwork, even though it was all on his laptop. “I never dreamed I’d come back to real home cooking.” When her dad traveled, he gravitated toward fast food, which was comforting, familiar, and cheap.