“He needs fewer cupcakes.”
“Those are not mutually exclusive.”
Dad poured the wine and gave me more than either of them.
My parents believed in equality until one of their children arrived with a public scandal.
Mom folded her hands.
“So.”
“No.”
“I haven’t asked anything.”
“You said it with an investigative pause.”
Dad carried the lasagna to the table.
“Let her eat.”
“Thank you.”
He cut me a piece large enough to have its own weather system.
I looked at him.
“This feels less like dinner and more like a zoning issue.”
“You didn’t eat on the plane.”
“How do you know?”
“Your mother checked.”
“There was no meal,” Mom said.
“I know. That was the problem.”
I took a bite.
For almost thirty seconds, nobody mentioned Savannah.
It was an impressive family record.
Mom broke first.
“Your father thought she was a news anchor.”
Dad lifted his glass.
“The name sounded familiar.”
“She has six albums,” Mom said.
“News anchors also have careers.”
“She wears rhinestones.”
