The words came out smooth and certain, as though there had never been a question to begin with.
She did not pause to see my reaction. She simply turned to the next page of her notes.
“My dad doesn’t eat pork anymore,” she went on, “so maybe turkey and beef. My mom likes the guest room at the end of the hall. It’s quieter. The kids can sleep in the den. You still have those fold-out couches, right?”
I sat with both hands around my water glass.
The glass was cool against my palms.
Across from me, Ashley kept listing one expectation after another. Food. Bedrooms. Towels. Decorations. Breakfast. Coffee. Sleeping arrangements.
She did not look up.
Fred sat beside her, my son, tapping his fork lightly against his plate. He heard every word. He knew exactly how she sounded. Still, he said nothing.
He never did anymore.
Ashley moved from meals to decorations without taking a breath.
“Oh, and maybe fewer candles this year,” she said. “My brother’s daughter gets headaches. Maybe you could do more lights outside instead.”
She said it like I was someone she had hired.
I took a slow sip of water and placed the glass back on the coaster.
Then I smiled.
It was not the polite smile I had used for years. It was not the smile I wore when I swallowed my own exhaustion so no one else would feel uncomfortable.
It was a different kind of smile.
