The fourteen-dollar blueberry pie was still giving off steam when I put the blue ceramic bowl down between the silver salt shakers.

My mother, Ruth, straightened her reading glasses on their silver chain and settled back in her chair.

Zane took the stainless steel server and cut through the crust.

He cleared his throat loudly before he slid the first slice onto my father’s plate.

“Bob gets the big corner piece,” Zane said, his voice deep and heavy enough to shut down any talk about who sat where.

My father, Bob, tapped his wooden pipe three times against his right palm.

He didn’t raise his eyes to the pie.

Jeremy sat across from Zane with both hands pressed flat on his thighs.

He hadn’t touched his fork since we’d sat down at six.

Zane pushed a second plate over the linen tablecloth toward our son.

“Eat up, Jeremy.

Your mom spent all afternoon on this.”

Jeremy didn’t reach for his fork.

His eyes were fixed on the silver wristwatch sitting against Zane’s left wrist.

I turned my silver wedding band around my ring finger twice.

“He doesn’t have to eat the crust if he doesn’t want it, Zane.”

“He has to eat,” Zane said.

He turned his wrist to look at the dial, the shiny links catching the light from the ceiling fixture.