I heard about the dinner from Lyle—he blurted it out while stuffing potato chips in his mouth.
“Elizabeth rented the whole top floor of the Luciana Hotel! Fancy, huh? Dad says she booked it just for us. Big celebration.”
I paused mid-mop. “Us?”
Nash answered, “You’re not coming, Ma. Grandpa said you're... not up for it. I mean, look at you."
Not up for it... Like I was sick. Or senile. Or something to be pitied.
By sunset, the house was empty. Edmund had shaved. Wore the cologne he only touched for business deals and funerals. He stood tall in his navy suit, fixing Lyle’s and Nash collar like a proud grandfather, and Lester wore his best suit.
“Remember,” Edmund said to them, “Elizabeth’s doing this because she loves us. She's family.”
“We know, grandpa. That's why we love Elizabeth more than Grandma Doris.” they answered in unison.
And then, nothing. No goodbye. No we’ll bring you something. Just the sound of the front door closing like a coffin lid.
The quiet afterward was insulting. A hollow that screamed louder than any slap.
I stood in the middle of the hallway, in my house slippers, holding a basket of unfolded laundry. My stomach growled. I hadn’t cooked. What for?