Then said yes.
I bought supplies.
Baked in the small hours before cleaning Ethan’s house.
Noah helped label boxes.
Emma drew apples on them.
We called them Walter’s Pies as a joke.
Then Margaret posted a photograph in a neighborhood Facebook group.
The joke became business.
Orders came.
Five.
Then twelve.
Then twenty.
I had run grocery stores for decades.
Selling pie was not difficult.
But I enjoyed it differently.
No board meetings.
No quarterly reports.
No commercial leases.
Just crust.
Fruit.
People smiling.
Vanessa noticed the boxes.
“What are those?”
“Orders.”
“For what?”
“Pie.”
“You’re selling food from my kitchen?”
I looked at her.
“No.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“I’m baking at the commercial kitchen inside one of my stores.”
Silence.
She stared.
“One of your stores?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you retired.”
“I did.”
“Then why do you have a store?”
“I still own things after retiring.”
