I can’t tell you how much that hurts, even if I understand why now.”
“I know,” she muttered.
“But,” I said, finally looking at her, “I’d like to get to know you now. Slowly.”
She burst into tears then. “I’ll take it slowly, Meg.
I’ll take anything you’re willing to give me.”
We started with coffee dates at neutral places. It was awkward at first, but the more we got to know each other, the easier it got. Then she asked if I wanted to learn to bake.
The first pie was a disaster.
I burned the crust, and the filling was lumpy and wrong, but we laughed about it until we couldn’t breathe.
We went shopping together, too. We tried on ridiculous shoes and took selfies in dressing room mirrors, giggling like the teenage girls I’d always envied.
It wasn’t perfect, but it felt healing.
One evening, about two months after that first meeting at the diner, I came home from Mom’s place with a perfect key lime pie I’d baked all by myself.
Dad dropped his gaze to the pie in my hands. “Smells good. She always did make a mean key lime pie.”
In stoic Dad-speak, that meant he was finally ready to let go of the hurt, to stop being angry.
“Want a piece?” I asked.
He smiled. “I’d love one.”
Tell us what you think about this story, and share it with your friends. It might inspire them and brighten their day.
