The Message From My Son That Forced An Impossible Choice – The Archivist

clutched in his good hand, waiting not-so-patiently. My mom is cutting perfect slices and adding scoops of vanilla ice cream that’s already starting to melt.

“Claire!” Dad says, clear as a bell. “Pie! Now!”

I laugh and sit down in my chair—the same chair I’ve sat in since I was six years old, with my initials carved into the underside of the seat from continue reading …