My Daughter and Apple Pie by Raymond Carver.

She serves me

a piece of it a few minutes
out of the oven. A little steam rises
from the slits on top. Sugar and spice —
cinnamon—burned into the crust.
But she’s wearing these dark glasses
in the kitchen at ten o’clock
in the morning—everything nice —
as she watches me break off
a piece, bring it to my mouth,
and blow on it. My daughter’s kitchen,
in winter. I fork the pie in
and tell myself to stay out of it.
She says she loves him. No way
could it be worse.