knock.
This time it’s Becca. Alone. Holding a pie in a plastic container.
“I made this for Mom’s birthday last year,” she says. “I thought maybe you’d like it.”
I nod slowly. “Come in.”
We sit on the porch. She talks. I listen. Then I talk. She listens. We eat the pie together in awkward silence that eventually becomes companionable. There’s no grand apology,continue reading …
