Mom’s eyes widened in genuine shock. “Rupert, be serious. You are overreacting.”
Brooke threw her hands up in a grand gesture of exasperation. “Oh my god, you perpetually do this. You have to turn every minor inconvenience into a massive moral crusade.”
I looked down at my children, whose faces were pale and drawn., I looked out at the freezing, asphalt driveway.
“No, Brooke,” I said, my hand wrapping around the cold brass of the doorknob. “Sometimes the moral crusade arrives with assembly already required.”
I took the foil pan and handed it back to him.
“Hold onto that, buddy. We are taking the pastry.”
Mom let out a gasp of profound offense. “The pie, too? Honestly, Rupert, the pie hasn’t committed any sins.”
“Happy birthday, Grandma.”
For a moment, a shadow of genuine shame flickered across my mother’s face. She looked down at the uneven, childlike handwriting.
