At Sunday dinner, my son-in-law smiled across the …

By the time Anthony lifted his wineglass and said, with that polished little smile of his, “Quite an appetite tonight,” every face at Rachel’s table had already turned toward me. It was a Sunday in late October, cold enough in Centennial that the front windows had gone black with reflection, and the Broncos game was still muttering from a television in the family room nobody had bothered to turn off. The dining room smelled like rosemary, butter, and red wine.

Rachel had used the good plates. Anthony had carved the roast like he was hosting investors instead of family. Someone laughed before the sentence had even finished landing.

Then someone else. By the time the sound went around the table, it no longer mattered who started it. I had a fork in one hand and a folded white linen napkin in the other.