She’s 14 now. Smart. Funny. Too generous for her own good.
One week she was collecting blankets for the animal shelter. The next she was asking if we had extra canned food because, “Mrs. Vera says she’s fine, but Mom, she isn’t fine.”
“Mom, I want to bake.”
Last weekend, she came home quiet. Not sad. Just thinking.
She dropped her backpack and said, “Mom, I want to bake.”
I smiled. “That’s not exactly new.”
“A lot.”
“How much is a lot?”
“Forty pies.”
I could hear the rest coming.
I laughed. “No.”
She did not.
I turned around. “You’re serious.”
She nodded. “One of the women at the nursing home said they haven’t had homemade dessert in years.”
“Okay.”
“And one man said his wife used to make apple pie every Sunday.”
“You already planned this?”
I could hear the rest coming.
Lila folded her arms. “It makes people feel remembered.”
I stared at her. “Forty pies?”
“Thirty-eight,” she said. “But 40 sounds better.”
She brightened. “I checked the store app. If we buy the cheap flour and the apples on sale, and if I use my babysitting money-“