“Then I’m gonna go do the dishes.”
I step back. Out of his arms.
Out of the moment.
Laughter, cursing, and Italian pour in from the living room. The women go back and forth while both uncles argue with the TV.
I grab the sponge, stare out the window,
and coach my lungs through it.
Inhale. Exhale. Act heartless, unhurt.
Try to remind myself who I gotta be to protect myself—someone who doesn’t give a fuck.
Behind me, Aunt Lisa drops Maria the question—“So, Maria, what’d the doc say? Any word on the transplant list yet?”
And the room drops.
Sound dips.
Glasses clink.
Chatter dies. Breath holds.
It’s the ghost in the room.
Don’t mention it, and they choke on the lie.
Mention it, and they’re choking on the truth.
Then Andrew speaks up,
deadpan, fake-somber, lethal in his delivery?—
“Nothin’ yet. They’re stalling, waitin’ to see if we kill her first. And with Teddy fuckin’ Vale smilin’ up from her lap? They don’t gotta lift a finger.”
“Andrew,” Maria says,
all warmth and edge-of-laughter.
In an instant, the room breathes again.
Laughter cuts through the weight
like a hot knife through frosting.
Aunt Lisa snorts into her wine.
Uncle John chuckles.
Then no one talks about it again.
They’re laughing.
And Andrew gave them permission.
He walks to the counter for coffee,
