My 14-Year-Old Daughter Baked 40 Apple Pies for the Local Nursing Home – I Started Shaking When Two Armed Officers Knocked on My Door at Dawn

“Thirty-eight. But 40 sounds better.”

She brightened. “I checked the store app. If we buy the cheap flour and the apples on sale, and if I use my babysitting money-“

I cut in. “You already planned this?”

“We don’t have enough pie tins.”

“Maybe.”

I sighed. “We don’t have enough pie tins.”

She grinned. “Mrs. Vera said we can borrow hers.”

“You already asked Mrs. Vera?”

“Maybe.”

I pointed at her. “You are exhausting.”

Saturday morning looked like a flour bomb had gone off.

She hugged me. “Please.”

I held out for about three seconds.

Then I said, “Fine. But when this kitchen becomes a disaster, I want it noted that I had concerns.”

She kissed my cheek. “You’re the best.”

“No,” I said. “Just weak.”

Saturday morning looked like a flour bomb had gone off.

At one point she got quiet.

Apples everywhere. Cinnamon in the air. Dough on the counter, dough on the floor, dough somehow on the cookie jar. Lila had flour in her hair and on her nose.

I said, “How is it on your forehead?”

She wiped her cheek. “Is it?”

“That is not your forehead.”

By pie 26, I said, “Next time, write a card.”