Noah looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Are they sick?”
“I don’t know,” I said carefully.
But I suspected something.
I looked at the grocery bags on the passenger seat. I had brought food because my mother had asked me to. She always asked me to contribute something, then acted as if what I brought did not count.
One bag held dinner rolls, salad, and juice boxes for the children. The other held a small chocolate cake from the bakery near my apartment.
But I had not brought the roasted chicken. I had not made the mashed potatoes. I had not touched the gravy.
My mother had made that meal.
Another call came in, this time from my father.
I answered, but I said nothing.
“Claire!” he barked, though his voice cracked halfway through my name. “Where are you?”
“At dinner with my children.”
“You need to come back.”
