He smiled.
But after twenty-six years, I knew his real smile.
This wasn’t it.
His brother Steve and Steve’s wife Karen arrived soon afterward carrying blueberry pie.
Karen slipped into the kitchen beside me.
“Judith still insists homemade is better,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“So I took it out of the store box before we came.”
I laughed.
“I did that last Thanksgiving.”
For a few minutes, we were simply two daughters-in-law surviving another Foster dinner.
Then Judith called everyone to the table.
Chicken soup came first.
Six bowls steamed in front of us.
After that would come pot roast, potatoes, carrots, rolls, and pie.
“I forgot the crackers,” Judith said.
“I’ll get them,” Mark replied immediately.
Too immediately.
Then, for reasons that made sense only minutes later, he picked up my bowl.
“My bowl?” I asked.
“You like extra pepper.”
He smiled again.
That same wrong smile.
Something inside me tightened.
“I’m going to wash my hands.”
Nobody paid attention when I left the dining room.
