As he railed and railed, Bryony remembered to “just listen.” The administrator had coached Mitch and her about the importance of not arguing. Bryony’s long history of not arguing finally served a purpose, but this new alternative to not arguing, this active listening without walking away or going blank inside as a defense, was new. She liked it. She liked where it led.

Over the past week, Bryony had begun to see her father in a new light.

Isolation seemed to be the source of his surliness. She’d never noticed his singularity, how he did not have friends, until now. That noticing, and the hours spent visiting, resulted in a growing tenderness toward her father, and the tenderness deflected his barbs. He might never be nice to her, but she was determined to be kind to him for the rest of his life.

“I could understand…,” her father said, arriving at the low-blow of his diatribe. “I’d understand if you had a husband to take care of, but you have no one to think of but yourself. Your mother didn’t raise you right. You’re selfish, like her.”

There it was again, the reference to her mother’s selfishness. Someday Bryony would ask him to elaborate, but not now. The administrator had said her father might need six months to a year to process the trauma of moving from the home he’d lived in for over sixty years. Moreover, he was still grieving the loss of his wife.

Bryony would give him as much time as he needed.

“Did they hook up your cable?” she asked.

“It took a week,” he grumbled.

“But now it works?”

“It’s fine.”

“And all the channels you need are available?”

“Yes.”

“And who is Alma?”

Her father smiled.

Who was Alma?

“She’s George Orman’s little sister,” he said. “They lived down the street when we were kids. I haven’t seen her since high school. She married young and moved to Columbus.”

“She seems nice.”

“She’s okay.” He smiled again.

Bryony chose not to probe.

From the parking lot, she called Mitch to give him an update.

After she finished, he first asked her to donate something for the Band Boosters bake sale, then he too went on a tear about her refusal to offer care. “It’s not too late,” he said. “You’ve got a crew in there ready to start renovations on the house in order to sell. RestHaven is month-to-month. You could take a few months to update Dad’s house, and then, instead of selling, you and Dad could move back in together!”

“I thought we were clear on this,” Bryony said.

“Think about it, Bry. You could sell your house and live rent-free at Dad’s, then pay off my half when he dies. You’d be tens of thousands of dollars ahead.”

“I would be insane,” Bryony said.

“Better crazy than poor.”

Why did Mitch constantly insist she was on brink of financial ruin?

As she had earlier with her father, Bryony chose not to take the bait. She ended the call as amicably as she could, telling him she would buy something to donate for the sale and—knowing the lunch rush would be over—called Lillian.

Bryony repeated her phone conversation with Mitch, anticipating her best friend would join her in being astonished, at least a bit peeved, over her brother’s insensitivity.

Lillian’s response missed the target completely. “You’re going to donate store bought?” she asked. “Why don’t you bake anymore? You love being in the kitchen.”

“You know why I don’t bake anymore,” Bryony said.

“You still don’t bake because of Nathan?”

“He said I was boring.” Bryony couldn’t believe she needed to repeat this to Lillian. “He said I was only good for dessert, and being with me made him fat. He said he wanted someone with an interest in heating up something other than the oven.” Nathan, she discovered, had started seeing the snorkeling instructor before Bryony flew back on her own to Ohio. Love at first sight, he had called it. Bryony called it betrayal, and she was far enough past the acute grief of losing her mother to acknowledge the impact of losing her lover, too.

“Nathan was a jerk,” Lillian said. “Throw him out of your mind, Bry. Get rid of him.”

Perhaps if she had made the decision to kick him out before he left her first, Bryony would be able to do that. Being the one left behind made her a loser.

“Bry?” Lillian asked. “You still there?”

“Yes.”

“Are you pouting?” Lillian asked.

“No,” Bryony answered, but she knew she was.

“Bry,” Lillian said in her Mom voice. “You’ve given up baking, your all-time favorite activity.” Enunciating each syllable, she finished the rebuke with, “Get over him.”

“Easier said than done.” Bryony rested her forehead on the steering wheel.

“Who said life was easy?”

“Who said life had to be this hard?”

“It could get harder,” Lillian said.

“Stop!” Bryony sat up and laughed. “You’re not helping!”

“Just trying to be the voice of reason.”

“Stop being so reasonable. Tell me my father and brother should understand a grown woman does not have to move back in with her father and care for him.”

“They are being wholly insensitive and unkind,” Lillian said.

“Thank you.” Bryony sighed.

“Go home after work and bake something.”

If living a contented life was as simple as the pleasure of making a perfect pie, Bryony’s happiness bank would be bursting with wealth. But life wasn’t that simple. There was no recipe for success and satisfaction. “Love you, Lil,” she said.