PART 7-In front of twenty relatives, my 4-year-old son brought a piece of the homemade cake to my mother-in-law, who kicked it across the patio and yelled, “Don’t Call Me Grandma.” I just gave my little boy a hug and turned to face my husband, not realizing that we would wind up at the hospital later that afternoon and discover something even worse.

They also carried memory.
Medicine could measure one.
Families were responsible for what they did with the other.
Luke lifted the repaired bowl with both hands.
This time, no one kicked it away.
This time, no child asked whether kindness could earn the right to be loved.
The cobbler moved around the table until everyone who wanted a piece had received one.
And everyone who did not want one was allowed to say no.
END OF THE EXTENDED EPILOGUE