Maya knelt beside a box, folding the edges with practiced care, her hands steady despite the tremor in her heart. Across the room, Elena hovered near the spice rack, her brow furrowed in concentration as she arranged jars with silent urgency. The air crackled with the tension of unsaid words, and the clatter of glass seemed louder than normal. "You won't find good saffron in the city without paying a fortune," she muttered, tucking a small, glass jar into a corner of a box. "Mom, they have stores in Chicago. I’ll be fine."

Elena picked up the cast iron skillet, her thumb running along its seasoned edge. She set it gently in a box, as if sealing a memory with every movement. "And don't forget to keep your cast iron seasoned. If you let it rust, don't call me." Maya grinned, taping a box shut, her smile both reassurance and defense.

Their relationship had always been a dance of action. When Maya failed her driving test, Elena didn’t offer comfort in words. Instead, she spent hours in a vacant parking lot, guiding Maya through parallel parking until dusk swallowed their frustration. When grief visited Elena, Maya didn’t speak—she arrived every Saturday, pulling weeds so her mother wouldn’t have to face the earth alone.

Elena lingered by the car, her bravado slipping as the moment of farewell drew near. Her voice tightened, the words practical yet trembling. "Check your oil every month." "I know, Mom." "And the spare key is in the magnetic box under the wheel well." "I know."

Elena pressed the notebook into Maya’s hands, its spine cracked and pages swollen with clippings and notes. "It’s the recipes," she explained, her voice gentler. "But look at the back." Maya flipped through, finding dates and memories—her first day of kindergarten, the missed violin note, dreams of architecture—all chronicled in her mother’s careful script. "You kept a log?" "I kept a witness," Elena whispered, enveloping Maya in a fierce embrace that smelled of rosemary and years of shared history.

As Maya drove away, the ache of parting settled into something quieter—a thread of connection, invisible yet unbreakable. She reached for the worn cover of the notebook, feeling the weight of remembered moments and unspoken love. The city ahead was unknown, but the scent of home lingered, steady and true, wherever she would go next.