Chapter 5 - WHY I STILL BROUGHT THE PIE
Dad made the pumpkin pie every Thanksgiving.
Not Mom.
Dad.
He used too much nutmeg.
Insisted on making crust from scratch.
Complained about canned pumpkin while using canned pumpkin.
When he died, Thanksgiving changed.
The first year, nobody made the pie.
The second year, I did.
It came out slightly burned.
Mom cried anyway.
“This tastes like your father.”
“That might not be a compliment.”
She laughed.
That was one of the last good Thanksgivings before Steve and I fell apart.
Three days before the Thanksgiving at the door, Jenna texted me.
Mom keeps asking whether anyone knows Dad’s pie recipe.
I stared at the message.
Then replied:
I have it.
Jenna:
Could you make one?
I waited.
Am I invited?
No answer for almost an hour.
Then:
I don’t know what Mom wants. Things are still weird.
That hurt.
I wrote:
Ask her.
Jenna never replied.
The next morning, Steve called.
“Bring the pie if you want.”
“If I want?”
“Your mother would appreciate it.”
“Am I coming to dinner?”
A pause.
“No.”
I closed my eyes.
“Did Mom say that?”
“She doesn’t want conflict.”
“What conflict?”
“You.”
I almost hung up.
Instead, I said:
“I’ll drop it off.”
Why?
Because some stupid part of me still thought Dad’s pie might open a door nobody else wanted to open.
I told myself I was doing it for Mom.
Maybe I was also testing the story.
If my mother truly wanted nothing to do with me, I needed to see it.
So I baked the pie.
Packed a backpack because I planned to spend the weekend at a friend’s cabin afterward.
Drove across town.
Walked to the house.
Steve opened the door.
And told me they wanted the pie.
Not me.
The sentence was cruel.
But at least it was clear.
Then I saw Mom accept the pie through the window.
She did not come after me.
Whatever Steve had lied about, my family had made choices too.
That mattered later.
May you like
Emily could prove her father manipulated everyone.
She could not turn every other adult into an innocent victim.
