My Son at the Table

“And?” I said carefully.

“And that we’ll have to ‘put things in order.’ For real.”

I didn’t understand.

“What kind of order?”

“The kind where I’m not in the way,” he said with a hollow little laugh. But his eyes weren’t joking.

A chill crawled down my spine.

“What exactly did he say?”

“He said, ‘You’ll have to get used to it. Your mother and I are building a family. You’re already almost an adult.’”

He hesitated.

“What else?” I pressed.