“I brought a peace offering,” he said.

He held up the box.

The smell of baked cherries and buttery crust leaked out through the thin cardboard.

It wasn’t from the cheap grocery store down the block.

It was from the artisan bakery on the wealthy side of Riverfront.

A single pie from that shop cost more than my weekly electric bill.

“Pamela gets a little defensive about money, and Dustin is just young and stupid,” my father said.

He adjusted his shirt cuffs, a habit I had watched since I was in middle school.