Chapter 8: Bread, Wheat, and Hope

My illness gradually improved, so I didn’t get to see Mom and Dad again like I wanted.

Each day, the fever faded, and the world came back into focus. The ache for my parents dulled, replaced by a dull acceptance.

Zombie Dad was particularly happy.

He whistled off-key, drummed on the kitchen table, and made jokes so bad even I had to laugh. There was a new lightness to the house, like we’d opened a window after a long winter.

"Finally, I don’t have to cook anymore—even dogs wouldn’t eat what I make."

He tossed a towel over his shoulder, pretending to wipe sweat from his brow, and flashed me a crooked grin.

I glanced at him.

I almost smiled back, but stopped myself, remembering everything that had happened. It was hard to trust happiness after so much loss.

Now he’s even cursing himself.

Sighing deeply, I resignedly lifted the big old cookie jar, took one look, and gasped.

The ceramic jar with the chipped lid—Mom’s favorite—felt heavy as I pulled it down. I expected dust or maybe a couple of stale cookies.

"Whoa!"

My voice echoed in the quiet kitchen. I almost dropped the jar in shock.

The jar was packed full of golden wheat, almost overflowing.

It sparkled in the sunlight, each grain plump and perfect. I’d never seen so much food at once.

I rubbed my eyes hard, then carefully pinched a grain, rolled it between my fingers, and put it in my mouth.

The texture was smooth, the flavor earthy and rich. It tasted like hope.

Full of wheat aroma—the more I chewed, the better it tasted.

It smelled like Sunday morning pancakes and fresh-baked rolls at Thanksgiving—warm, sweet, and full of hope.

It was real…

I checked again, just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. But the wheat stayed there, solid and comforting.

Zombie Dad slumped against the doorframe, looking so relaxed he might slide right onto the floor.

He looked so relaxed, you’d think he’d won the lottery. His laughter rolled through the house, infectious and a little bit odd.

My scalp tingled, my body stiffened.

I watched him, not sure if I should be scared or grateful. Maybe a little of both.

"Hurry up and cook, Dad’s starving."

He clapped his hands together, rubbing his stomach like a cartoon character, making a big show of being hungry.

After saying that, he went back to the table, cracking peanuts to fill his stomach.

The shells littered the table, but he didn’t seem to care. It was the happiest I’d seen him yet.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

The pressure in my chest eased a little. At least tonight, we wouldn’t go to bed hungry.

Went to wash the wheat, steamed it in the pot.

I scrubbed each grain carefully, humming a tune Mom used to sing. The kitchen filled with the smell of bread and sunlight.

Then went to the backyard garden to pick greens, cooked them, added salt and mixed it all together, and the meal was ready.

I plucked a handful of kale and wild onions, tossing them into the pot. The meal was simple, but it felt like a feast.

When I lifted the lid, the aroma of wheat filled the house.

It smelled like the county fair—warm, sweet, and full of promise.

Zombie Dad peeked in several times from the door.

He tried to act casual, but I caught him hovering by the kitchen every few minutes, eyes wide as a kid on Christmas morning.

Finally, he patted his belly and muttered, "Useless, didn’t you eat enough burgers and fries before?"

His words sounded like a joke, but his eyes were soft, almost proud. It made me laugh, despite myself.

When the wheat meal was served, Zombie Dad hurriedly took a big bite.

He dug in like he hadn’t eaten in days, making appreciative noises and smacking his lips. The sight made my heart ache and swell all at once.

Squinting, shaking his head: "Spring’s here, birds are singing, every home’s got the smell of fresh bread."

He closed his eyes, savoring the taste, and for a moment, the world felt safe again.

Seeing me staring at him, he laughed so hard he nearly choked.

He pounded the table, wheezing, and wiped away a tear. It was contagious—I couldn’t help but giggle, too.

Strange, could Zombie Dad have been a teacher when he was alive?

The way he talked, the way he told stories—there was something familiar and comforting in it. I wondered what he was like before all this.