I had gone to the grocery store for my own food.
Vanessa’s rule was clear.
Do not take groceries without permission.
I obeyed.
I bought eggs.
Bread.
Cheese.
Coffee.
Vegetables.
Chicken.
Then I saw a discounted bag of bruised apples.
Two dollars.
The sight took me back sixty years.
My mother standing in our kitchen.
Cutting away bad spots.
Saying.
“Good food doesn’t become worthless because it isn’t pretty.”
She made apple pie from damaged fruit.
Best pie in the world.
I bought the apples.
That afternoon, I peeled them.
Noah appeared first.
“What are you making?”
“A weapon.”
His eyes widened.
Then he smelled cinnamon.
“You’re lying.”
“Yes.”
Emma came in.
“Pie?”
“Eventually.”
They watched me make the crust.
Emma asked.
“Why don’t you buy one?”
“Because this tastes better.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m sixty.”
“That doesn’t answer it.”
“It answers more than you think.”
