Walter immediately reached for the knife.
Lily stopped him.
“No.”
“What?”
“You’re not serving.”
“Why?”
“Because Grandma always gave me the first piece.”
“Yes.”
Lily smiled.
“And she always saved you one before everybody else destroyed the pie.”
Walter laughed.
“That woman had excellent priorities.”
Lily cut the first slice.
The crust cracked slightly.
Warm apple filling settled onto the plate.
She handed it to Walter.
“Today the first one is yours.”
Walter stared at it.
His eyes filled.
“Lily.”
“Take it.”
He did.
Then Lily cut the second slice.
She took one bite standing beside the table.
Everything around her disappeared for a moment.
Walter watched her expression change.
Her eyes closed.
She chewed slowly.
When she opened them, tears were there.
“That’s it.”
She whispered.
Walter’s throat tightened.
“What?”
“That’s Grandma’s pie.”
He smiled.
“I told you I still knew.”
Lily laughed and cried at the same time.
“I thought I’d forgotten.”
That sentence broke him.
Because Walter understood.
After Evelyn died, people always talked about remembering her.
Photographs.
Stories.
Voice messages saved on phones.
Jewelry.
Christmas decorations.
But memory has holes.
Walter had already forgotten exactly how Evelyn said his name when annoyed.
He could no longer remember the perfume she wore when they first met.
Sometimes he feared losing a little more every year.
Then a smell returned.
A recipe.
A song.
A stupid blue car.
And suddenly a person was near again.
Not alive.
Not magically restored.
But close enough to touch the shape they left behind.
Lily took another bite.
“I used to sit at your counter.”
She said.
“Feet swinging because they didn’t reach the floor.”
“You stole cranberries.”
“Grandma let me.”
“She claimed you stole them.”
“She was covering for herself.”
“Possible.”
People began asking for slices.
Richard took one.
Then Caroline.
Ethan.
Lily’s college roommate.
Two cousins.
The professional cake remained untouched for several minutes.
Melissa watched.
Walter noticed and felt bad.
Not because the expensive dessert deserved loyalty.
Because he knew Melissa had worked hard.
He walked toward her.
“Try it.”
She looked at him.
“I don’t deserve any.”
Walter sighed.
“Melissa.”
“It’s pie.”
“Not absolution.”
She almost smiled.
He handed her a plate.
She took a bite.
Her eyes softened.
“I remember this.”
Walter nodded.
“Evelyn made it the first Christmas you and Daniel were married.”
Melissa looked at him.
“You remember that?”
“She complained you were too thin.”
Melissa laughed.
“She tried to feed me every three hours.”
“That was her primary communication style.”
Melissa looked down at the slice.
“She loved this family.”
“Yes.”
Melissa’s eyes filled.
“I think I spent so much time trying to make today perfect that I forgot what perfect was supposed to be for.”
Walter said nothing.
She continued.
“I wanted Ethan’s parents to think we had done well.”
Walter looked toward Richard, who was eating a second slice directly from a napkin because the plates had run out.
“Richard appears remarkably unconcerned.”
Melissa laughed despite herself.