Witchling: Love you, have a wet day!
Sighing, I lock my phone and toss it on the table. Unfortunately, she’s not wrong. I’m still horny, and now I have blue ovaries, which is way worse.
Once the bread is cool enough, I grab my serrated knife and pause, holding my breath.
This is it—the moment of truth.
The knife glides through the loaf with zero resistance, revealing the perfect, airy center. My jaw drops.
“Holy gluten-free grail,” I choke out, staring at the soft, pillowy crumb. It’s perfect.
I shake my head and exhale through a proud smile as I slice another piece and pop it in the toaster.
When I got my diagnosis, everything changed. Suddenly, I was saying goodbye to croissants, bagels, and late-night pizza binges—all my favorite things—and hello to endless ingredient labels and an obsessive need to Google“is this gluten-free?”
It was exhausting. Not to mention beyond expensive.
The simple act of shopping or eating made me mad, and when I’m mad, I bake. But even that looked different.
I was at a crossroads in my life—give up everything I know, love, and find comfort in, or adapt, and I’ve been adapting my entire life. So I learned. Bread, snacks, desserts, you name it. If it’s gluten-free and edible, I’ve probably made it. And now, I don’t just survive; I thrive.
Who needs a bakery or expensive grocery store when you can make sourdoughthisperfect?
The toaster dings, and I pile the slice high with avocado, salt, chili flakes, and a drizzle of olive oil. Grabbing my breakfast and coffee, I set myself up at the tiny kitchen table, back to the TV.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at it again without thinking of Kade.
And apparently Abby.
Sighing, I take a sip of steaming hot coffee, letting the oat milk and sugar coat my tongue, and pull out the mostly empty binder I brought with me from New York.
My breath catches, and the coffee twists in my stomach, but I open it, eyes zeroing in on the first page.
A photocopy of a birth certificate that doesn’t belong to me.
Lorna Iris Walker was born in the Heart Springs Emergency Clinic just over forty-seven years ago to Joseph and Sarah Walker.
There are no photos, no addresses or any other identifying information, and given that it was nearly fifty years ago, in a rural community, finding more details has been extremely hard.
I stare at it for a long moment and munch on my toast. It’s cooked perfectly, but I hardly taste it at all.
Swallowing thickly, I flip to the next page.
Georgia Rose Walker, born on August twentieth to Lorna Walker—and a blank space for a father—in Saffron, West Virginia, population four hundred thirty-two.
A town so small, so in the middle of absolutely nowhere, that the doctors at the tiny hospital were unable to save her mom, Lorna, when she hemorrhaged during childbirth.
Only eighteen years old, and Lorna passed before she ever got to hold her baby. And that baby? She became a ward of the state before she even opened her eyes.
Fifteen years. That’s how long I bounced around foster homes. In and out. Never a fit. Never wanted long enough to stay.
Not until Robin Donnelly.
She was older—mid-seventies and cranky in the mornings, but she loved me like I’d always been hers. She was a widow who lived on a small farm she and her late husband had dreamed of. On that farm, she raised me through heartbreak, taught me how to fight for myself, and made sure I believed I was worth something, all while riding a horse with a shovel in my hand.
She’s the reason I made it through undergrad. The reason I applied to grad school in New York and got my MSW.
She’s the reason I believed I could help other kids like me.
