They used to love each other.

I could tell. Mom and dad would hug and kiss each other goodnight, and they would tuck me in with my brothers and sisters. Then a few years ago, my brother was killed in a carriage accident. That's when they started yelling.

They used to love each other.

Mom would scream that dad didn't love her, that he didn't protect her family, his family. Dad would heckle back that she slept around, that he wasn't sure if half the kids were even his. Then they would scream even more, she'd slap him and he'd fume and leave the house, but no matter how drunk or how pissed off, dad never hit women.

They used to love my brothers and sisters.

They would hug us goodnight and say we were the best gift God had ever given. They would take us to church and buy us sweets; they helped us with our homework and kissed us when we got hurt. When Andrew's first girlfriend broke up with him, Mom baked a huge cake and we all took turns telling jokes and making him feel better. When Angela's first boyfriend started hitting her, Mom told her she was breaking up with him and that was final, and if she wanted to skip school the day she did it, that was fine.

They used to love me.

When my first girlfriend said I was ugly and a terrible kisser, my dad said that looks aren't everything. He told me something I will never forget. He said, "Son, as long as you're a good person in your heart, where it counts, it doesn't matter what you look like. You've got a sure ticket to heaven, and you just gotta stay good with the Lord and eventually he'll give back and you'll meet a fine woman."

They used to love me.

When my second girlfriend broke up with me, right around the time they started yelling, my dad had no more words of wisdom. His words were fueled by drunken anger, and no matter how much he might regret saying them later, they stung and kept stinging. My mother baked no more cakes. But it's the pies I miss the most.

They used to bake pies.

I love pies. I don't understand why they're so incredible to me. If I see one, I HAVE to have it. It's gotten me in trouble many times, after I ran away from home. But none of the pies I steal are as good as my mom's home- made, baked to perfection pastries. They're the sweetest thing you've ever tasted. I miss her pies.

It's no wonder the newsies call me Pie Eater.

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A/N: Isn't it great?

--Chronicles Bailey