The first time I had Thanksgiving with Lara’s family, everything felt perfect—like a Norman Rockwell painting. Diane’s famous pie was the star, whispered about with reverence. When I finally tasted it, it was incredible. But later, in the trash, I found a pre-made pie filling packet. Then came more discoveries: boxed stuffing, canned cranberry sauce. The illusion shattered.

When I confronted Lara, she got defensive. “You don’t get it,” she said. Her dad later admitted Diane cared more about appearances than the truth. Our engagement quietly ended soon after, our versions of honesty too different.

A year later, Lara asked me to help hang Christmas lights. Diane surprised me by wanting to bake the pie from scratch—admitting she’d fallen into shortcuts but wanted to change. The pie wasn’t perfect, but it tasted like home.

Lara and I slowly reconnected, eventually marrying with Diane’s real, imperfect pie at our wedding. Because the best things aren’t perfect—they’re made with care, honesty, and shared with those who matter.