A middle aged man with a partially untucked plaid button up and greasy hair loosely inspects the shelves of a typical neighborhood supermarket. He picks up a pound of turkey sausage briefly weighing it in his palm before tossing it into the grocery basket hanging from his forearm next to an onion, parmesan cheese, and some fennel. Continuing on to wander aimlessly down the isles, the man's eyes catch on a jar of Prego tomato sauce and his brow furrows. With his free hand the man tugs his phone out of his back pocket, a slight smile gracing his lips as he gazes down at his lockscreen, a picture of himself, a short haired woman, and a teenage girl. They’re all standing in front of the Millennium Falcon at Disneyland’s Galaxy’s Edge, eyes crinkled from laughter and arms strewn around each other. Shaking his head he swipes it open, going to settings and zooming it in to only show himself and his daughter before switching to safari and searching “how to make homemade tomato sauce.” Seeming to have found what he was looking for he leaves the Prego in its place, heading in the direction of the fresh produce section with an odd amount of conviction. 

[Cut to a typical middle class kitchen] The fourteen-year-old girl pictured on the lock screen grabs at a food-splattered binder resting on a shelf above the sink. She has to get her knee up on the counter to actually reach. Plopping down at the kitchen table she begins to flip through it until she gets to a particularly worn page titled “Katherine’s Sausage Spaghetti.” The sound of a car pulling into the driveway catches her attention, and she whips her head around just in time to catch her Dad struggling through the door with three bags of groceries on either arm. A laugh escapes her.

Aubrey: You don’t have to bring it all in one trip you know.

Scott: Why make two trips out of what could be one? 

Aubrey gets up and makes her way over to her dad taking two of the bags and tossing them onto the kitchen island. 

Aubrey: Did’ya get all the stuff?

She begins to rummage through the paper bags, occasionally taking out cold ingredients and placing them in the fridge. 

Scott: Yeah, we got tomatoes, cheese, garlic, the works. Pretty sure we already have angel hair in the cupboard.

Aubrey: We do, it's the wheat kind though.

Scott: That’s fine, I don’t wanna go back. I’m making the sauce from scratch so do you think you can start some water boiling to get the skins off the tomatoes?

Aubrey momentarily pauses and grabs the recipe binder, looking down at the paper then up again at the bags.

Aubrey: Hey Dad, where’s the white wine?

Scott: You’re underaged kiddo.

Aubrey: The alcohol boils away.

Scott: Oh, you mean the recipe. I don’t think this one calls for it.

Aubrey: Yes it does. Mom always used wine in her spaghetti sauce, see?

She opens the binder rings and removes the recipe, passing it to her father. He skims it, looking slightly uncomfortable. He passes the paper back avoiding the direct eye contact his daughter is quite obviously attempting to make. 

Aubrey: What is it?

Scott: Well, I thought we could try something a little different this time, that's all. 

She leans forward on the counter, tucking her hair behind her ears. 

Aubrey: Different? Why would we try something different, you know Mom’s is the best.

Scott: Don’t you think it’d taste weird if she wasn’t the one to make it?

Aubrey: You’ve made it before.

Taking a knife from the kitchen sink Scott grabs a sponge and begins to scrub at residue. He throws a towel over his left shoulder. 

Scott: Aub, that was when she was around to help. She’s not anymore, and that isn’t my fault.

He pauses for a moment, trying to read his daughter's expression before turning back to work.

 Scott: Get the water going, would ya? 

Filling the pot with water and settling it onto the stove, she cranks the front burners too high, slamming her hands on the counter.

Aubrey: There. Done. 

Scott: Thank you. I’ll call you when it's ready.

Aubrey: Don’t bother. I’m not hungry anymore. 

Scott watches his daughter stalk down the hall flinching at the sound of a slamming door. His eyes fall to his hands, and he silently dries the knife, sheathing it in the block when he’s finished. With a sigh Scott grabs his car keys and a reusable grocery bag and heads out, closing the door behind him.