When I placed it on the table, Dorian stared at it, then looked away.
“I remember the last one,” he said.
“So do I.”
I cut two equal slices.
For a moment, I saw Mom carrying that warm pie through the back door. I saw myself crying in the kitchen, certain that love could be measured by who received the larger piece.
Then I pushed one plate toward Dorian.
“My mother should have told me the truth,” I said. “And you should have come to me sooner.”
He nodded.
“But you didn’t steal her from me.”
His eyes filled.
“No.”
I reached across the table and took his hand.
For the first time, I did not see the homeless boy behind our house.
I saw the brother who had spent twenty years waiting to be invited inside.
