Standing outside Judith’s kitchen, I suddenly wondered whether the explanation had been beside me all along.
Mark carried the bowl back to the table.
“There you go.”
“Thanks.”
I sat down.
He sat beside me.
His knee bounced beneath the table.
Everyone began talking.
Judith discussed Thanksgiving plans.
Harold told an old story.
Steve corrected him.
Karen laughed.
Everything looked painfully normal.
I stared at the soup in front of me.
Steam curled upward.
Rosemary.
Thyme.
Chicken stock.
Home.
Family.
And something that should not have been there.
For a moment, I tried to convince myself I had misunderstood.
Maybe it was harmless.
Maybe there was an explanation.
Then I noticed Mark watching me.
Waiting.
That ended the argument inside my head.
When everyone briefly looked away, I quietly switched my bowl with Judith’s.
The bowls were identical.
Nobody noticed.
Then Judith sat down again.
“So,” she said, “who’s hosting Thanksgiving?”
She lifted her spoon.
My mouth went dry.
She took a bite.
Then another.
Mark glanced at me.
“You’re not eating.”
