Chapter 6: The Dinner That Was Never Really About the Food
Carol arrived at five-thirty on Saturday with a bottle of wine she'd picked up at the airport and the particular energy of a woman who had strong opinions about everything and considered silence an invitation.
She hugged Grant first.
Then she turned to me with both arms open and said, "Something smells wonderful."
"Pot roast," I said.
"I knew you'd come through." She patted my arm and walked into the living room like she owned the square footage.
Grant caught my eye over her shoulder.
I smiled at him.
A perfectly normal smile.
He looked relieved.
He shouldn't have been.
Dinner was pleasant on the surface.
Carol talked about her neighbor's renovation and a documentary she'd watched on the flight and whether Grant was eating enough vegetables.
Grant refilled her wine glass.
I brought out the roast and the bread and the salad I hadn't been asked to make but made anyway because I was apparently still that person.
"This is exactly right," Carol said, cutting into the meat.
"You know, I've been making this recipe for forty years and mine never comes out this tender."
"It's all in the sear," I said.
"Grant, you are a lucky man."
"I know," Grant said.
He reached over and squeezed my hand.
I let him.
We were halfway through dinner when Carol set down her fork and looked at me with the particular directness that I had always both respected and braced for.
"You seem quiet tonight."
"Just tired," I said.
"Mm." She picked up her wine.
"Grant said you two had a bit of a week."
I looked at Grant.
He was suddenly very focused on his plate.
"Did he."
"He said you were going through some things.
Adjusting."
"Adjusting," I repeated.
"He didn't give me details.
He just said you'd had some friction."
I set my fork down.
"Carol, did Grant tell you why I stopped doing his laundry?"
She blinked.
"He mentioned something about a disagreement."
"It wasn't a disagreement.
I stopped picking up after him because I'd been doing it for fourteen years without being asked and without being thanked and I decided I was done."
The table was quiet.
Grant looked up.
"We don't need to—"
"She asked," I said.
Carol looked at her son.
Then back at me.
Something shifted in her expression.
Not offense.
Something more complicated than that.
"He's always been like that," she said quietly.
"His father was the same way.
I used to follow that man around with a laundry basket for thirty years."
"Did it bother you?"
"Every single day." She picked up her fork again.
"I just didn't know I was allowed to stop."
Grant was very still.
"Mom—"
"She's right, Grant." Carol's voice was even.
Not unkind.
Just clear.
"You were raised by a woman who did everything without complaint.
That's my fault as much as yours.
But it's not her job to continue what I started."
The candle on the table flickered.
Grant looked at me.
"I know that."
"Do you?" I said.
He opened his mouth.
Then his phone buzzed on the table.
He turned it face-down immediately.
Carol didn't miss it.
Neither did I.
"Who's that?" Carol asked.
"Work," Grant said.
"On a Saturday evening."
"It happens."
May you like
He reached for his wine.
His hand was not entirely steady.
