Morning light crept through the curtains the day after Thanksgiving, and I shuffled into the kitchen still feeling the weight of yesterday’s feast. The house was quiet, the kind of calm that only follows a day filled with family, football and way too much food.

On the counter sat the blueberry pie—deep purple filling, flaky crust, practically calling my name. I cut a slice anyway, even though my stomach protested before the fork even touched the plate. One bite in, I could hardly enjoy it. I was still so completely full from the night before that the sweetness felt almost overwhelming.

Still, there was something about it, a small, soft moment that belonged only to me, pie in hand, wrapped in the hush of the morning after Thanksgiving.