By six-fifteen the first seating had already begun, servers gliding between tables with polished efficiency while guests leaned forward eagerly over menus describing ingredients most of them had never tasted before.
At six-forty, the host escorted four people through the front door.
I recognized them immediately, though time had softened and rearranged their features.
My mother walked first, her posture still sharp with the same determined pride she had always carried when she believed someone might be watching.
My father followed with heavier steps, his shoulders broader but somehow slouched, as though life had slowly bent his confidence inward.
Behind them came my younger sister, Julia, dressed in a bright red coat that looked far more expensive than anything our family had owned while I lived under their roof.
Beside her walked a young man I didn’t recognize, probably a boyfriend.
They were seated at table fourteen, directly across from the open kitchen.
From where I stood, I could see everything.
My mother’s eyes scanned the room the way a real estate agent studies a new property.
