I heard her walk into the kitchen. Her steps were usually light, almost dancing, but today they dragged.
“Could you hand me the nutmeg, sweetie?” I asked, not looking up from the steaming pot.
Silence.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. It was a father’s instinct—a sudden, sharp awareness that the atmosphere in the room had shifted from warm to frigid.
I put down the spoon and turned.
What I saw stopped me cold.
Grace was standing in the doorway, clutching the doorframe as if the house were shaking. Her face was pale, drained of blood. Her eyes, usually bright, were red-rimmed and swollen. She was shaking like a leaf in a gale.
“Dad…” she murmured, her voice thin and brittle. “I… I need to tell you something. I won’t be here for Thanksgiving dinner.”
My stomach dropped through the floor. I wiped my hands on my apron, stepping toward her.“What do you mean?” I asked, confused. “Is it a friend? Did something happen at school?”
She shook her head violently. She looked like she was about to be sick.
