Mom stepped forward, rubbing her temples as if warding off an impending migraine. “Please, it is my birthday. Can we just have one evening where we do not engage in combat?”
“I am not fighting,” I said. I reached down and hoisted Lucy’s floral backpack onto my shoulder. “I am simply departing.”
Mom’s eyes widened in genuine shock. “Rupert, be serious. You are overreacting.”
Brooke threw her hands up in a grand gesture of exasperation. “Oh my god, you perpetually do this. You have to turn every minor inconvenience into a massive moral crusade.”
I looked down at my children, whose faces were pale and drawn., I looked out at the freezing, asphalt driveway.
“No, Brooke,” I said, my hand wrapping around the cold brass of the doorknob. “Sometimes the moral crusade arrives with assembly already required.”
I took the foil pan and handed it back to him.
“Hold onto that, buddy. We are taking the pastry.”
Mom let out a gasp of profound offense. “The pie, too? Honestly, Rupert, the pie hasn’t committed any sins.”
“Happy birthday, Grandma.”
