Every Sunday afternoon, like clockwork,
You'd welcome me with chocolate-stained hands
And that warm smile that crinkled your eyes
Just like a real grandmother's would.
The pudding cake was always waiting,
Dark and moist, your special recipe
That took three hours to perfect—
Each minute a labor of love.
You'd pile chocolate ice cream on top
Until it melted into rivers of sweet cream,
Creating pools of memories
That I still swim in today.
Not my blood, they'd say,
As if that mattered
When you fed my soul
With more than just cake.
Your kitchen was my sanctuary,
Your heart my inheritance
Proving some grandmothers
Are chosen by love, not birth.