He exchanges a puzzled look with my mother, and they both break out in soft laughter. “If I worked weekends, son, your mother would kill me. Isn’t that right, honey?”
My mother covers her mouth, demure and bashful. “I would kill you dead.”
Gabriela pats the empty space beside her on the sectional. “Sit, D. Tell us about your day.”
I hesitate, my brain blanking, glitching as I attempt to remember. “Why don’t you tell me about your day instead?” Forcing my legs to stride in the direction of my sister, I perch down beside her. I stifle a gasp as she places her frigid hand on my knee. “You’re so cold.”
Gabby furrows her groomed brows. “No, D.You’rethe one that’s cold. See?” She presses the back of her hand on my cheek, and I shiver. “I’m warm.”
“No, you’re?—”
Alison appears on the threshold, beaming. “Dinner’s ready. Shall we?”
My father takes my mother’s hand as he helps her stand up. He places his palm on the small of her back, and she takes a deep, satisfying breath. “Oh, Alison, it smells so good. I’ve always loved your roasts.”
I slowly walk beside Gabby as we make our way into the dining room. “You made a roast?” I ask Alison. “Since when can you cook?”
Alison giggles. “I’ve always cooked, Damon. The roast is your favorite. It’s why I made it. It’s why I make it every Sunday. For you. Because you love it.”
As we enter the dining room, I stare at the largetable draped with a white tablecloth, a green runner down the middle. There’s a feast sprawled across the crisp linens, five candelabras stretching the length of the table. Each candle burns with a steady flame. There are eight chairs. Four on one side. Three on the other. One at the head.
My fingertips tingle as I pull out one of the chairs.
“Damon.” Alison motions toward the head of the table. “You sit there. You always sit at the head.”
“Oh…” I swallow, stomach twisting with nausea. “Sorry. I-I forgot.”
“Forgetting already?” my father jokes, taking his seat next to my mother. “Hopefully he won’t ever forget us.”
“He’ll never forget us, Jon,” my mother chuckles as she drapes a napkin across her lap. “We’ll always be together. How can he forget us when we’re always here?”
“Don’t worry, D,” Gabby says, smiling as Alison sits down on my right. “It’s a simple mistake.”
I glance at the three empty seats to my left. “Are we expecting company?” I ask, staring at the colorful plastic cups and plates. I look back down at my own china. Ceramic. “Alison?”
“Boys!” Alison yells into the abyss. “Boys! Dinner!”
“Boys?” I frown. “What?—”
Footsteps pound in the distance, shaking the foundation of the house as three young boys pour into the dining room. My eyes widen. “Who are?—”
“Dad!” The oldest one shrieks, running toward me with a red toy car in his hand. He places it in front ofmy wine glass, and I’m frozen, staring at the vehicle. Not a car. A van. A minivan. Red. “Will you play with us after dinner?”
“Yeah, Dad.” The youngest boy hops up on his seat and grins at me. “Play with us.”
I lift the toy, examining it. “What is this?” I ask Alison. “Why does he have this?”
Alison tilts her head. “You gave it to him, Damon. On his birthday. Don’t you remember? You picked it out yourself. There were so many toys. So many cars. But you picked that one. You pointed your finger and said, ‘That one. I want that one.’” She looks at the children. “Tell him. Tell your father that he picked it. He wanted it. Tell him that he chose it. Tell him, boys. He needs to hear it. He needs to know that it was his choice.”
The boys look at me in union. Their red hair matches the flames of the candles. “You did, Dad. You picked it. We all play with it. We love it. It’s our favorite. We love it, Dad.”
I shake my head. Dad. No… “Alison, whose children are these?”
She blinks. “What do you mean, baby? They’re ours. They’re our children.”
My father narrows his eyes. “Are you feeling alright, Damon? You don’t look well.”
I abruptly stand up. “You don’t like children, Alison. You don’twantchildren.”
