“Loretta, none of us would take a dime from you,” David said, his baritone quiet and steady.

“I know,” I said.

“That’s why I brought these.”

I reached into my cardigan pocket and pulled out three white index cards held together with a red rubber band.

I snapped the band off and placed one card beside each pie plate.

“My mother’s Sunday pot roast recipe,” I said, looking at Rachel.

“The one with the slow-caramelized onions you used to ask for after factory double shifts.”

Rachel picked up her card, her eyes shining as she traced the faded cursive.