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a certain presence about her, an almost divine fortitude that always made her seem much larger than she actually was.  She was thin, though not in an unhealthy way, and her facial features were soft and kind.  The only blemish that marred her otherwise smooth skin was a one-inch scar on her right cheek that BrianWhitman, her first husband and Jamie’s biological father, had left her with the night he had disappeared from their lives forever.  Though closer to fifty than forty, she had an air of renewed youth about her courtesy of both her second husband and her second chance at life.  For her, age was truly nothing more than a number.
    “They’re for dessert,” his mom said.  “I know how many I made, and I’ll know if you take one, young man.”
    “I thought we had an understanding, mom.  That you can’t treat me like I’m seven anymore.”
    “Maybe not, but your still my son.  And you will not ruin your dinner with a cookie.”
    “Yes ma’am,” Jamie said.
    “And don’t call me ma’am.  It makes me feel old.”
    “Yes mother.”
    His mom sighed.  Jamie knew she hated being called mother as much as she hated being called ma’am.  “How about you make yourself useful and go set the table for dinner.  Steve just called.  He’ll be home in ten minutes.”  His mother turned back to her pie.
    Jamie did as instructed, pulling plates and bowls, cups and utensils, from their respective cabinets and drawers in the kitchen and arranging them on the dining room table.  It took him only two minutes to complete this task, and when he was done, he returned to the kitchen and turned his eyes to his mother, taking pleasure in watching her as she blissfully worked at making the world’s best apple pie.  It filled him with a great contentment to see her so happy in her skin, enjoying the simple pleasures of life.  After suffering at the hands of his birth father for thirteen years, enduring emotional and physical violence and pain on an almost daily basis, she truly deserved this: a beautiful home filled with love and warmth, a husband who raised neither voice nor fist in anger, and a respectful child who did as he was asked without complaint.
    “How was work today?” his mother as ked, not turning from her task.
    “Fine,” Jamie said.  “Weird.  The usual.”
    Monstru .  Abomination . 
    The words cam unbidden to his mind, sent a shiver down his spine.   He kept them to himself for the moment.
    “I’ll tell you over dinner.”
    Several minutes later, the sound of the front door opening and closing echoed through the house.  Steve Gorman, Jamie’s stepfather of ten years, entered the kitchen.  He was fifty-seven years old, ten years older than Leslie Whitman, but appeared no older than forty, a fact he attributed to his daily workout routine, healthy eating, and excellent genes.  He ran three miles every morning, played tennis twice a week at the local racquet club, and lifted weights in the basement every other day.  As a result of these activities, Steve’s facial features retained a youthful, elastic quality, and his body more closely resembled that of a twenty year old athlete than one belonging to a man on the wrong side of fifty.  He was not tall, standing just under six feet, but he was imposing in his own right, with broad shoulders and a strong jaw and dark, inquisitive eyes that seemed to penetrate whatever his gaze fell upon.  He wore his dark brown hair pushed back and kept his goatee square and sharp.
    Leslie drifted over to her husband as he shed his suit jacket and kissed him quickly on his lips.  He kissed her back then hung his charcoal jacket on the back of one of the kitchen chairs.  “Do I smell an apple pie baking?” he asked, lifting his nose to the air.
    “For dessert,” Jamie warned.  “You go after it now and I promise you’ll get nothing but bloody knuckles.  And maybe a splinter.”
    “Duly noted.” 
    “Jamie, be a darling,” Leslie said, “and