I wiped lemonade off the patio table.
“Sorry, let me get that.”
When my daughter dripped ketchup near Daniel’s shoe, I grabbed a napkin.
“I’m sorry.”
Daniel looked at the red spot on the stone, not his shoe.
“It’s ketchup, Maggie.”
I laughed faintly.
“It’s ketchup, Maggie.”
Still, my hands shook as I cleaned it.
Daniel watched.
He did not comfort me.
He did not correct me.
He stored it away.
He did not comfort me.
***
By late afternoon, Elaine clapped her hands.
“All right, everyone. Family picture before the kids turn into raisins.”
People groaned and gathered beneath the big oak tree at the far end of the patio.
It was tradition.
Same tree.
Same angle.
Every Fourth of July.
I had been in 15 of those pictures.
It was tradition.
At first, I stood beside Ryan with his arm around me.
Then with babies on my hip.
Then with toddlers pulling at my dress.
Then gradually, year by year, farther toward the edge.
Children knelt in front. Adults lined up behind them. Lucille stood beside Ryan, smiling like she had earned the spot.
At first, I stood beside Ryan with his arm around me.
