Part 2
My mother’s head snapped up.
She set her fork down again. Different this time. Not the click of judgment. The clatter of someone who hadn’t expected to be called out.
“Excuse me?” she said.
I didn’t raise my voice. I was very careful not to.
“We’re leaving,” I said. “Oliver, say goodbye to everyone.”
The table seemed to hold its breath.
Oliver slid off his chair slowly, the way kids do when they’re not sure what’s happening but can feel that something is. He carried his cloth napkin with him for a second before realizing it and setting it back on the table. He went around to my father first.
“Bye, Grandpa.”
My father pulled him into a hug that lasted a beat longer than normal. When he let go, he kept one hand on Oliver’s shoulder and didn’t look at my mother.
“Bye, buddy,” he said. His voice was rough around the edges.
Oliver went to Mason next, which I hadn’t expected. Mason — twelve years old and too cool for most things — stood up from his chair and hugged my son. An actual hug. Garrett watched this with his jaw tight and his hands flat on the table.
Oliver reached my mother last.
He stood in front of her. She was still seated. He was still small.
“Bye, Grandma,” he said.
She started to reach for him. “Oliver—”
“We need to get going,” I said. Not loud. Not angry. Just final.
Jess was already up, folding her napkin, gathering her things with the quiet efficiency of someone who had rehearsed this exit a hundred times in her head even if she never believed she’d have to use it. She kissed my father on the cheek. She said goodbye to Brooke. She said nothing to my mother.
I got our coats from the front closet. The pine wreath above the door dropped two needles onto the floor as I reached past it.
“Tom,” my mother said from the hallway.
I turned around.
She was standing at the edge of the dining room, arms crossed, chin up. She looked the way she always looked when she had decided she was the one who’d been wronged.