Cooking became meditation, almost a sacred rite. I beat eggs with sugar and thought how easy it is to destroy what builds over years. Mixed ingredients and pondered—why do we so often hurt those we love most? Maybe precisely because we know: they'll forgive us?
The dough kneaded reluctantly at first, resisted like a sinner's soul before confession. But I was persistent, putting into each knead a bit of remorse and an ounce of hope. This was my little rebellion against my own idiocy—an attempt to create from the chaos of guilt something harmonious and edible.
While the pie browned in the oven, exuding aromas capable of reconciling warring armies, I rehearsed apologies. How many variants flashed in my restless head!
Forgive me, my dear mommy. I was wrong—sounds too formal, like a funeral speech.
Mom, forgive me. I shouldn't have said those things—warmer, more human. Though what things exactly? I don't even remember properly—words flew out on their own, as in the heat of quarrel.
Mom, I'm a fool. Here's the pie—brevity is the sister of talent, but lacks depth of penance.
Better to speak simpler, without literary flourishes. The simpler—the more sincere. The more sincere—the better chances for forgiveness.
Finally, the oven signaled. I took out the pie, and the aroma filled the kitchen with such a thick wave of warmth that my heart warmed on its own. The berries gave juice that mixed with the dough, creating marble swirls—beautiful as sunset, fragrant as childhood memories.
— Mmm... — I couldn't resist, pinching off a piece.
Really very tasty. Sweet tartness of berries, tenderness of airy dough, and subtle floral whisper on the tongue. The pie turned out not just food, but a symbol of reconciliation—warm, sweet, made with love.
I carefully wrapped it in a clean towel, like a baby, to keep the warmth—this ruddy, aromatic apology. Placed it on the table by the window and began to wait.
Outside the window, it was starting to darken. Soon I'll find out if love baked in dough can melt the ice of offense. After all, this whole undertaking—isn't just baking. It's my response, my silent monologue, an attempt to restore the fragile balance between us.
Deep down, I knew: the pie is only a symbol. True reconciliation will require courage to look into the eyes of my guilt. Love for mother was my strength and weakness at once, and in this paradox I saw some bitter beauty.
Let this pie become the beginning, — I decided, and in my heart ignited a spark—thin, but stubborn, like the first ray of light in pre-dawn darkness.
Everything's ready. Remains to wait for night and the main taster. And hope that flowers from these fields will suit her taste. And her heart.