|
|
|
|
|
|
|
So Maya broke her honey cake into tiny crumbs and shared them with everyone. Each person got only a taste, but they smiled. The festival went on—not with full bellies, but with laughter and music.
Maya’s grandmother had always said, “Every patchwork quilt has one good piece—a scrap of fabric that holds the whole story together.”
Maya looked at her own basket—just one small honey cake, her grandmother’s recipe. She hesitated. If she gave it away, she would have nothing left to eat.