An apple pie.
Ryan knew my mother hated apple pie.
My father had loved it, and after he died, she had stopped buying it completely.
“He said he wanted to fix things between us,” she continued. “He said I’d been turning you against him.”
“You haven’t.”
“I told him that.”
Her breath shook.
“He called me a crazy old woman. I told him to leave. He walked out through the kitchen.”
I was already moving toward my car.
“Then what?”
“He came back.”
Her voice fractured.
“With the aluminum bat from the garage.”
I stopped with my hand on the door handle.
The entire parking lot seemed to tilt.
“He hit me in the shoulder first. Then here.”
I heard fabric move as she touched herself.
“My ribs.”
“Mom—”
“When I fell, my glasses came off. He stepped on them. Then he called 911 and told them I’d attacked him.”
