Judith Foster , my formidable mother-in-law, mandated it. She reigned over the family with an iron grip she disguised as maternal devotion, firmly believing that forced traditions were the only glue keeping her bloodline intact. Dinner commenced at 5:30 PM on the dot. The menu was dictated by the season: heavy pot roasts in the dead of winter, charred steaks in July, and her legendary homemade rolls that, admittedly, surpassed anything you could buy in a bakery. Nobody dared challenge Judith’s itinerary, least of all Mark.
Yet, by the time our sedan idled into his parents’ expansive driveway near Geist Reservoir that fateful afternoon, a cold prickle of unease had already taken root at the base of my neck.
Mark had been a ghost during the thirty-minute drive. Ordinarily, he would fill the silence with grievances—complaining about the Colts’ offensive line, the fluctuating gas prices, or the never-ending construction on Interstate 69. Today, he was a statue. His eyes were locked dead ahead, staring through the windshield at nothing. His knuckles were white, his fingers drumming an erratic, nervous rhythm against the steering wheel. Every sixty seconds, his gaze flicked to the dashboard clock.
