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I drop back into my bed beside Faye, eager for the morning when I’ll be able to book myself in for a neck adjustment.

“I don't want to eat it.” Mabel pouts, her chin quivering, brows slanted inward, her eyes furiously stuck on her mother.

Faye shrugs. “No pie then.”

My mom purses her lips, biting back her own protest.

It's comical to watch, because I fully remember being stuck at a table beside Holt as we struggled with the veggie before us, dessert on the line. She had no problem taking the sweet treats from me and Holt when we refused our broccoli, but now that it’s her grandbaby, it pains her something fierce to see dessert missed.

I wonder if one day, when I'm through the daily dinner battles, if I'll feel the same as Mom when I look at my grandkids sitting around my table.

I scoot my chair closer to Mabel's. “How about this? You eat one, and I eat one. Then you, then me.”

She sniffles, considering the deal. “Until it's all gone?”

I nod. “Until it's all gone.”

“But it's green, Daddy. I don't like green things.”

“That's not true,” I tell her. “Your green tutu is one of your favorite tutus.”

All her tutus are her favorite tutus.

Tears flood her eyes, but they don’t fall.

She sniffles again through her pout, trying to set her cutie eyes on me. “I don't like green food.”

“Ah, we're being biased against food, now.” She glares at me under her brows when her cutie eyes fail to do the trick. I sit back in my seat, waiting patiently. “Deals on the table, kiddo. It's your call.”

She snorts back her emotions as she huffs. “Fine.”

I lean forward, fork in hand, to stab one of the pesky broccoli buggers from her plate. I pop it into my mouth.

“It's not that bad,” I tell her.

“Yes, it is,” she argues, but she stabs her own piece of broccoli. The smallest one in the pile, but it's still a piece.

I consider it a win. Faye, by the way she's eyeballing us with that pinch to her pretty lips, disagrees.

Mabel chokes down her tiny piece of broccoli.

I stab another piece and pop that into my mouth.

She gags, and Dad laughs. “Oh, the theatrics.”

Mabel's grumpy eyes swing to her grandfather. “That's rude, Pepaw.”

My father laughs louder. “Sorry, kiddo. I had to eat my broccoli, too, you know? With pie on the line, it's going down the hatch.”

Mabel glares at her plate, but she takes another fork full of broccoli, choking it down. We do this until it's all done, and Mom says, “Owen, honey, can you fetch the ice cream?”

“Sure, Memaw.” Owen slides back from the table to fetch the ice cream as Mom makes a beeline for the freshly baked apple pie she’s got cooling on her counter.

She lifts it, her brows bouncing happily as she tells Mabel, “I’ll make sure you get a big piece of pie for your troubles, Miss. Mabel.”

This cheers Mabel up a touch. But as is her way, she pushes, “With an extra scoop of ice cream?”

Mom sets the pie on the table to clutch her chest in mock outrage. “But of course!”