I picked it up.
Then I walked around the table and placed it in front of Mom.
She looked confused.
“Olivia?”
“Here.”
She stared at the pie.
“Why are you giving me yours?”
My throat tightened.
“Because when you were ten, someone should have given you the first piece.”
Her eyes widened.
“Someone should have made you feel special on your birthday,” I continued. “Someone should have told you that you didn’t have to earn it.”
I gently pushed the plate closer.
“So I’m giving it to you now.”
Mom looked down for a long time.
Then she picked up her fork.
Her hand was shaking.
She took one small bite.
And began crying again.
Dad held her while the rest of us sat quietly.
It wasn’t a perfect Thanksgiving.
But something important had finally changed.
Almost a year has passed since the anniversary celebration.
I wish I could say our family became completely different overnight.
It didn’t.
Mom and I still have difficult moments.
We meet once a month for lunch at a small diner halfway between our homes.
Sometimes we talk honestly about the past.
Other times, we discuss ordinary things.
Work.
Weather.
Recipes.
The garden.
Mom has started speaking with a counselor through her church.
The first time she told me, she sounded embarrassed.
“I’m sixty-four, Olivia. Isn’t it a little late to start therapy?”
I smiled.
“It’s never too late to stop repeating something that hurts people.”
She looked at me thoughtfully.
“Where did you learn that?”
“From Aunt Ruth.”
Mom laughed.
A real laugh.
“Of course you did.”
She still makes mistakes.
Sometimes she begins saying something sharp, then catches herself.
I can see the moment she recognizes the words.
