Chapter 13
The seating told me everything, the way the refrigerator always had.
Carter sat at the head of the table, in the place of honor at my mother’s right hand, in a booster seat she had bought especially for him.
Dany’s plate had been set at the far end, near the corner, alone.
No one on either side of him.
My four-year-old climbed into that chair by himself at the edge of his own family and started coloring on the paper placemat like he was used to being at the edge.
Because he was.
We hadn’t gotten through the first course before my mother started.
She set down her fork, folded her hands, and said warmly, for the whole table to hear, that she thought it would be good for everyone if I apologized for the way I’d behaved at the barbecue.
For storming off. For making a scene. For being so dramatic over nothing and upsetting the whole day.
The table got a little quiet.
A few eyes came to me, waiting.
I didn’t apologize.
I said evenly that I hadn’t come to talk about the barbecue.
My mother didn’t like that, but she was skilled, and she pivoted. She started talking about my father, about how hard his illness had been on the family, on her, and how much everyone had pulled together.
Then Nan Foster, meaning nothing by it, meaning to be kind, said what a blessing it was that Chelsea had been such a rock through all of it, always there for her dad.
Chelsea gave a modest little smile and accepted it.
My father’s illness—the eight months, the five-in-the-morning parking lots, the pill boxes, the $2,300, the $1,800 a month—all of it turned into a compliment for my sister right there at the table.
And my sister took it.
I felt the spreadsheet on my phone burning a hole in my pocket.
But I didn’t reach for it.
May you like
Not for that.
That wasn’t the receipt that mattered tonight.
