Laughter rolled down the length of the tables and out toward Lake Anna, where the water sat flat and silver under the afternoon sun.
My husband, Richard, didn’t look up from his plate.
He cut another piece of brisket. Dipped it in sauce. Kept chewing, like nothing at all had happened three feet away from him.
I stood there holding my cobbler.
I waited. I waited for the smallest sign that he understood what had just happened. A glance. A word. Even an embarrassed little cough into his napkin.
Ezoic
Anything.
Nothing came.
Then Eleanor, his mother, leaned back in the white folding chair I’d personally paid to rent, and smiled at me without one ounce of warmth behind it.
I set the cobbler down. I reached for my purse on the end of the bench.
“Oh, here we go,” Eleanor said. “Always so dramatic.”
She pointed one finger at the empty chair beside Richard.
