Served with a sweet smile, the pie sour and horse hoof-hard.
“You don’t have to eat it, Hun,” I said.
Hun chewed slowly, probably afraid of breaking a tooth. “It’s lovely, darling. The wee heart in the center says—made with love.”
He drew me in for a hug, sawed off another fork full and persisted. I never loved him more than in that moment. My defeat tasted like triumph.