When the federal vehicles pulled away, Mom came out of the kitchen carrying a pie.
“June, those people in suits just now—”
“Insurance salesmen.”
“Oh. Did you buy any?”
“No. Our family’s got enough insurance.”
“That’s good. Too many scammers these days.” She set the pie beside me. “Double cinnamon.”
I took a bite. Just the right amount of sweet.
Luke stuck his head out the second-floor window. “Insurance salesmen drive four Suburbans? Mom, you actually buy that?”
“Luke! Take your medicine!”
“That stuff is bitter as—”
“Three seconds,” I said.
A gulping sound came from upstairs, followed by a gag.
Saturday evening, backyard barbecue.
The charcoal crackled. Dad wore his old apron that said “King of the Grill”—a Father’s Day gift from Luke two years ago.
Dad stood over the grill,
