“You’ll mark the wood.”
“Then carry it.”
He carried it.
Thirty-eight years of marriage had refined their communication into threats involving household surfaces.
The house smelled like tomato sauce, furniture polish, and the same lavender candle Mom had been buying since I was fourteen.
My coat went onto the rack beside the door.
Molly’s red scarf still hung from the lowest hook.
I saw it.
Mom saw me see it.
Neither of us said anything.
In the kitchen, the table was set for four.
My eyes went to the extra plate.
Mom followed my gaze.
“Your father set the table.”
“I always put out enough,” Dad said.
“You set three places when Linda came at Christmas.”
“Linda brings that plastic container.”
“She has dietary restrictions.”
“She has dietary control issues.”
Mom removed the fourth plate and returned it to the cabinet.
The movement was quick.
Ordinary.
Molly’s absence had lived in the house long enough to become part of its routine.
That did not make it smaller.
A pan of lasagna rested on the stove beside garlic bread, roasted vegetables, salad, and a pie large enough to feed a minor sports team.
“Who else is coming?” I asked.
“No one.”
“This is food for nine.”
“You look thin.”
“I weigh exactly what I weighed last month.”
