She rolled her eyes.
By evening, the house smelled like butter and cinnamon.
Noah ate one slice after dinner.
Emma ate half.
Then Vanessa came home late.
She never saw the pie that night.
The next morning, she did.
She walked into the kitchen.
Stopped.
“What is that?”
“Apple pie.”
“I can see that.”
She stepped closer.
“Why is it here?”
“I made it.”
“For who?”
“The kids.”
Her expression changed.
“Where’s the ingredient label?”
I thought she was joking.
“There isn’t one.”
“You used packaged ingredients?”
“Flour.”
“Sugar.”
“Butter.”
“Apples.”
“Cinnamon.”
“Egg.”
She stared.
“And you expect me to let my children eat something when I don’t even know what’s inside it?”
“I just told you.”
She picked up the pan.
I straightened.
“Vanessa.”
“I’m not feeding my children random homemade food.”
Then she opened the trash can.
And dropped the whole pie inside.
