Strawberry Jam by Yuliia Krasii

Miranda demanded strawberry jam

for her pancakes all evening. She told me that her child wants it, so I had to surrender to please my pregnant wife. Once I got it, Miranda’s face lit up. I could sense her getting all excited over this jam and the pancakes. 

“Come on, Lily, join me at this feast!” she acted like the duchess from a period drama. I bowed and sat next to her, trying to act sophisticated. 

“Let me open it, my lady,” I said, taking the jam from her hands. 

I opened the can and this chemical strawberry smell tickled my nose slightly, suddenly bringing back the memories of my childhood. 

I remember myself, a five or six years old girl, on Sunday morning sitting in her pyjamas in the kitchen. The flower wallpaper surrounds me and I can feel the scratches on the old dining table under my hands. And here is Mom, bringing the Sunday oatmeal, a special oatmeal with cookies and strawberry jam. We turn on the TV and I happily eat my breakfast, watching a documentary about giraffes. As I take a spoonful of oatmeal, the strawberry jam gets on my nose. Mom looks at me, and we laugh, as she's gently brushing off the jam. 

“Lily? Are you with me?” I hear Miranda’s voice, which brings me back to reality. 

“Ah yes,” I reply and can’t contain a smile, “I have to call Mom”.