For twenty years, my mother made sure the homeless boy living behind our house never went hungry. After her funeral, he took both my hands in his and told me, “Before she d:ie:d, she BEGGED ME TO KEEP HER SECRET FROM YOU.”

It was my favorite dessert.

For the first time in weeks, I felt excited about dinner.

But when I entered the kitchen, Mom was wrapping the freshly baked pie.

“Are we having that tonight?” I asked eagerly.

She hesitated.

“No, sweetheart. I’m taking it to Gabriel. There’s vegetable soup on the stove for us.”

I stared at her.

“Why does he get pie when we barely have enough food?”

My frustration spilled out before I could stop myself.

Mom’s expression changed.

“Rachel, don’t speak about Gabriel that way.”

“But we’re your children!”

Her voice became unusually stern.

“That’s enough. I don’t want to hear you say something like that again.”

Then she carried the pie outside.

I stood alone in the kitchen, feeling rejected.

In my eight-year-old mind, there was only one explanation.

My mother loved Gabriel more than she loved me.

After that afternoon, I avoided him whenever possible.