I knew my son. Whenever he lied, his words came faster, and he swallowed hard between sentences.
I watched him in silence.
"I saw it with my own eyes. The bowl in the dog crate, the one Biscuit uses, is the exact same one."
He glared at me as if I were the unreasonable one.
"How is that possible? You're getting old, Mom. You're imagining things. There's no way Yvonne would make you eat out of a dog bowl. That's ridiculous."
He wouldn't admit it. Fine.
I lifted the bowl of food and pulled out a pair of disposable chopsticks.
"If it's not a dog bowl, then eat this. Finish it, and I'll believe you."
The color drained from his face.
He inched backward.
"Mom, you made this for Dad with your own hands. How could I eat it?"
"Stop making a scene. The food's going to get cold."
I knew he was guilty. I set the chopsticks down.
"Cary. You're lying."
He cut me off before I could say another word. "I'm not—"
"Look in the mirror. Look at your face right now."
Beads of sweat the size of soybeans covered his forehead.
"It's the disinfectant fumes. That's all."
So he did know the disinfectant smelled awful. Yet he hadn't lifted a finger to stop Yvonne from treating me like I was some kind of biohazard.