She was seven months pregnant with our first child.
Her center of gravity had become its own diplomatic territory.
We had gone over for a casual Saturday lunch.
Tessa was sleeping upstairs.
My mother was battling dry chicken in the kitchen.
Clare’s lower back was aching badly, so she sighed and lowered herself into the plush burgundy recliner.
I noticed immediately.
But because I’m a rational adult living in a society governed by laws, I assumed nobody would start a war over a chair.
I was spectacularly wrong.
Three minutes later, Tessa came down the stairs.
She stopped halfway across the carpet.
I have watched executive chefs discover that an entire walk-in freezer has failed with less horror on their faces.
She pointed a trembling finger.
“You’re in my chair.”
Clare glanced over her shoulder, assuming Tessa was talking to the family dog.
“Oh. I’m just resting my back. It’s very comfortable.”
