My husband, Dan, had just come in from the garage. He put his keys in the glove compartment by the door, as usual, and slumped into a chair, visibly exhausted, like a man who comes home from a long day of physical labor, his hands aching with fatigue.
“Shall we eat soon, honey?”
“In ten minutes,” I replied, counting.
Sam didn’t hesitate for a second. She crossed the kitchen, followed by a girl her own age, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, wearing a hoodie too thick for the season, the sleeves rolled up to her hands. She clutched the straps of an old purple backpack as if it were the only sturdy thing within reach.
“Mom, Lizie is eating with us.”
She said it the way she did with things she’d already decided on: no questions, no requests. Just a fact, a statement.
I had a knife in my hand, and dinner was ready for three.
