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.”
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