“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Why good?”
“Makes therapy cheaper.”
I laughed.
He had started counseling.
Vanessa too.
Separately at first.
Then together.
Apparently, my temporary stay had exposed cracks bigger than family housing.
Good.
Better to repair before collapse.
A year after I bought the house, we held a barbecue.
At my place.
Across the street.
Margaret came.
So did neighbors.
Sam Porter.
Several store managers.
Noah’s soccer friends.
Emma’s classmates.
Vanessa made dessert.
A pie.
Apple.
She put it on the table.
Then handed me a small card.
I opened it.
INGREDIENT LABEL.
Apples.
Butter.
Sugar.
Flour.
Cinnamon.
Salt.
Regret.
I laughed so hard I nearly dropped it.
She smiled.
“Safe to eat?”
“Probably.”
It was actually good.
Not as good as mine.
I told her.
She rolled her eyes.
That was family now.
Not perfect.
Better.
Then retirement brought another surprise.
The pie business grew enough that a local café wanted to sell them.
