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Sloane leaned closer to me. “Why is everyone watching?”

“This is a big deal.”

“It’s just pie.”

“Not to him.”

Grandpa lifted his fork. He cut through the crust, inspected the filling, and took a bite. His face revealed nothing.

Sloane sucked in a breath and held it.

He chewed slowly. Then he took another bite.

Patty grabbed Sloane’s arm.

Grandpa finished nearly half the slice before setting down his fork. “Very good,” he said.

The room relaxed.

Sloane let out her breath. “That’s it?”

“That’s very high praise,” I told her.

Grandma Ruth reached for the serving knife. “He wants another slice.”

Grandpa nodded.

Patty hugged Sloane from the side. “You did it.”

“We did it,” Sloane corrected. “You bought ingredients and made the crust. Hudson chopped pecans.”

“Chopping pecans doesn’t earn recipe credit,” Karen said from behind us.

Nobody had invited her into the conversation.

Sloane turned. “He also provided emotional support.”

Karen considered that even less useful. “Then congratulations,” she said, and walked away with her own slice.

The evening continued through cake, presents, stories, and Grandpa objecting when Grandma attempted to limit his third piece of pie.

“You are a hundred and one,” she told him. “Your doctor said moderation.”

Grandpa lifted his fork. “Yes, and it’s my birthday celebration.”

“That’s not a medical exemption,” Grandma attempted to argue.

He looked toward Mom. Mom wisely pretended to be occupied.

Grandpa ate the third slice.

Near the end of the evening, I went to help stack chairs. When I returned, Grandpa stood near the fireplace with Sloane several feet away from everyone else. He had pulled her aside.

That alone caught my attention. Grandpa didn’t pull people aside. He waited for them to come to him, then offered the minimum number of words required to complete the exchange.

I moved closer without interrupting.

He pointed toward the empty pie plate. “That was better.”