"Kritta," he whispered, propping himself onto the kitchen counter top, "we're grown-ups now."
I nodded in agreement, concentrating at the task at hand.
We both stared, diligently, at the appliance before us. Both fear and curiosity plastered across our faces, as the coffee pot sputtered and hissed. Was it angry? Did we break it? Mom? Wait, no. Mom doesn't drink coffee. She'd be no help.
"We just made our first pot of coffee," he said, amazed.
At that, we jumped and cheered. Hugged. Kissed in our new kitchen. You'd think we had found a cure for ingrown hairs. But no, just coffee. Beautiful, steaming coffee in a hand-me-down coffee pot.
"You try it first," I urged.