Renee looked down at her potatoes.
Caleb stopped pretending to text.
Sophie went silent mid-sentence.
The room felt so still I could hear the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
I looked at my son and saw, all at once, every age he had ever been.
Ten years old, crying over a pigeon that died in our backyard before the vet could save it.
Seventeen, arriving in a thunderstorm with soup because I had the flu and he couldn’t stand the idea of me being alone.
Twenty-six, holding his newborn daughter with such fear and devotion in his face that I loved him more in that minute than I thought a heart could hold.
And then there he was at forty-four, looking at me like an overdue obligation.
I set the basket down.
I folded my napkin.
I stood.
“Excuse me,” I said.
