Hope in a Night of Pie

Our parents split up when we were pretty young. I think I was eight when the divorce finalized. Honestly, I don’t remember much of why they split up. I don’t think Sam does either. In fact I have far more memories of Mom and Dad together after their divorce than I do before it.

One of my favorite memories of our parents was late on a Friday night in my grandmother’s kitchen. After our parents divorced, Mom, Sam and I moved in with our grandparents. It was great. I loved it and I love them.

Anyway, it was a year or two after the divorce and Dad was visiting. After he and I went out to dinner and Sam was put in bed (she was really sick that night), we all went to the kitchen. Mom had the idea to make pies, or she was already baking… I don’t really remember. What was special about this night, though, was all three of us sat down at the big kitchen table and started dabbing whip cream on the chocolate cream pies. My parents laughed together.

Looking back now, it’s a bit tragic because as I watched my parents talk and laugh I had a glimmer of hope that we would be a family again. I think every kid from a broken home has at least one of those moments happen in their lives. Maybe it will all be ok?

Unfortunately, for my family that was not the case… but that night was wonderful. At some point, my dad had said something silly which resulted in my mother idly flicking a spoonful of whip cream at him. My mom wasn’t exactly a great shot so instead of hitting him in the chest like she had planned, the large dollop sailed over my head to splatter plainly across my father’s face.

There was a moment of tense silence. My hands were over my mouth and I prayed that this magical moment with my parents was not destroyed over a misplaced spoonful of whip cream. And then I started to giggle as the whip cream slid down my daddy’s face and hit the table. And then my mom began to giggle… and then Dad started to giggle.

Here we were all giggling like idiots well passed my bed time… and then war began! My father’s hand curled, scooping a hunk of pie from a nearby tray and plainly throwing it at my mother. Mom didn’t miss a beat and in no time I was dodging a full pie flying by before it nailed my dad upside the head. Soon chocolate and cream was flying everywhere and my mom had run to the kitchen sink to grab the sink sprayer you use for big pots in order to defend herself.

We all came to a halt, though, when little Sam appeared in the doorway to the kitchen rubbing at her eyes with her heart blanket clutched to her side. “What are you doing?”

“Playing.” My mom replied, frozen in her defensive position with the sink still running.

“Can I play?” Sam was still rubbing at her eyes, looking like a ghost of the little girl she was. It was at this point I would have sworn my dad was a super hero. He flew across the room faster than the Flash and swept her up into his arms, spinning frail little Samantha with him into the kitchen. She giggled the whole way.

It was a great night.