A piece of pie

She brought each of us a piece of pie, our oldest daughter.

She’s a beautiful girl, my firstborn. Not a girl anymore, a woman. A mom. A wife. Living her own, good life, happily married, and loved. Loved by her husband, her boys, her friends, her siblings, and by us. She might be my firstborn, but she’s just as much Master T’s ‘little girl’ as his own daughter is. Our assembled family is good together, and pulls tightly together in difficult times, such as when my mom passed away, and now again with my son’s mental health.

She brought each of us a piece of pie, two days after our son was admitted to the clinic.

I knew what she was doing. Checking up on me. She’s worried about me, and I try to assure her not to be.
“You have to let go, mom. He’s being looked after now.”
I knew she wss right — still do — and as I swallowed down my tears, trying to hide them from her, she spoke again.
“I know it’s difficult. You’ve been in caring mode since November. It’s difficult to let go after all these months, I know, but you have to try.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.

“But at least now we each have a piece of pie,” Master T said, always the one who tries to make light of a situation.

I laughed, and asked my daughter if she wanted another cup of coffee.
“And no,” I said, “not with a piece of pie. That’s our dessert for after dinner tonight.”

The pie she brought is a cheesecake pie, with cherries on top. This just happens to be a favorite of mine, and when — before Covid — I went to my son for his monthly groceries, he and I would always go to that one little place, and I would always have this cheesecake pie. As I sat after dinner, enjoying that piece of pie, I thought of my beautiful children, and smiled.

The sun might not always be shining, but we always have each other, and always get through to the other side.

Two pieces of cheesecake pie, a piece of pie each for me and my husband.
Cheesecake pie with cherries, homemade by my daughter
(Image made with my mobile phone)

© Rebel’s Notes


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