I stared at it.
Brenda followed my eyes.
“Paisley wanted to make Grandpa’s cake.”
“You made it?”
“With instructions.”
“From whom?”
“You.”
“I didn’t give you instructions.”
“You have recipe cards.”
“You went through my recipe box?”
Her face changed.
“Technically—”
“Brenda.”
She laughed.
“I asked first. Gregory had a photograph of the card.”
“Better.”
The cake leaned slightly to one side.
Strawberry juice ran down the plate.
It was imperfect.
Beautifully imperfect.
That evening, we carried it to the porch after dinner.
The sun was disappearing behind the rooftops.
Paisley asked me to tell a story about Grandpa.
I looked at Brenda.
She nodded.
So I told them about the summer Robert became convinced he could repair the outdoor shower without turning off the water.
Gregory interrupted.
“I remember this.”
“You were twelve.”
“I remember Dad screaming.”
“He did not scream.”
“He absolutely screamed.”
“He made a surprised sound.”
