When I turned 12 my mother made me apple pie for my birthday. I didn't like regular cake because the frosting was always too sweet, and I couldn't eat ice cream cake because I was lactose intolerant.
    My mother didn't understand that she had to put pie shell in the tin before she added the filling. She added extra pastry on top of the pie and told me that it would balance out. The top of the pie was blue when it came out of the oven. My mother had put blue candles on top of the pie before she put it in the oven. She told me that candles are supposed to be lit on fire, so they're probably oven proof, and that I shouldn't be questioning her judgement, and that if I kept whining she would put the rolling pin in me and keep shoving until the other handle came out of my mouth and she could roll me across the floor, and that my father shouldn’t’ve left me with her, and that my father had left her for a younger woman because he was a spineless worm who couldn't handle a real woman.
    She began cutting the pie. She used scissors, since we no longer had knives that were sharp enough to cut anything harder than butter (we only had butterknives). She handed me a slice of the pie. She told me I didn't need a plate, because the slice of pie tin was a plate and if I took a plate it would just mean more dishes for her to do. I always did the dishes.
    I took a bite out of the still 400 degree Fahrenheit pie. My mother didn't give me a fork. She told me I didn't need a fork, because the slice of pie tin was a fork and if I took a fork it would just mean more dishes for her to do. I always did the dishes. Hot filling rolled down my hands. Tears rolled down my face into my mouth. My mother smiled at me.