I remembered a Sunday dinner months ago. Sarah had slid an open bank statement across the table toward me, her voice careful.
« Mom, about the account Grandpa left me, I wanted to ask — »
« Not at the table, kiddo. Your mother’s exhausted, » Kevin had laughed as he scooped the document up with the dirty plates.
I kept quiet.
He turned to me.
« Speaking of exhausted, how’s that boss of yours? Still riding you about the quarterly close? »
I’d thanked him that night for saving me from one more conversation I didn’t have the energy for.
***
Lola glanced at me at a red light.
« You’re doing the thing again. The staring. »
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