Grandma always steadied it with one hand before she reached for the flour.
The countertop still came up to his chin.
"Hands out."
She dusted his paws with flour and laughed when he sneezed white powder all over his shirt.
The dough was soft beneath his fingers.
He pressed too hard.
"It isn't fighting you," she said with a smile. "Be gentle."
So he tried again.
This time the dough pushed back just enough to make him grin.
When the first tray came out of the oven, every shortcake looked a little different. One leaned to the left. One had a crack across the top. One was darker than the others where it had stayed in the oven a minute too long.
"They're perfect," Grandma said.
"They're crooked."
"So are people."
She set the tray on the counter to cool.
Before anyone else could reach for one, she nodded toward him.
"Go on."
He didn't hesitate.
He snatched the warmest one, strawberries sliding off the top, cream on his nose before the first bite was finished.
Crumbs covered the front of his little purple shirt.
Grandma laughed so hard she had to lean against the counter.
"Always first to the shortcake," she said, shaking her head. "My little Shortcake."
He looked up, cheeks full, and smiled around another bite.
