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.