I put down my fork.
“Lori, could I talk to you for a second? In the hall?”
She dabbed her mouth with a napkin like a queen granting an audience.
“Of course, dear.”
Once we were out of sight, I asked, “Did you invite her?”
Lori tilted her head. “Invite whom?”
“Don’t. Please.”
Her smile didn’t change.
“Yes, Samantha. I invited Cheryl. I always invite Cheryl.”
“Why?”
“Because Cheryl was the only woman who ever truly deserved my son,” she said calmly. “Some people just aren’t meant to be part of this family.”
Lori patted my arm.
“Now, let’s not ruin the evening. Doreen’s pie is waiting.”
Then she walked back toward the dining room as though she had just commented on the weather.
I stayed there, staring at Mason’s framed baby photos along the wall.
Lori was in every one.
The drive home was quiet.
“You’re mad,” Mason finally said.
“I’m tired.”
“Mom means well, Sam. She just… You know how she is.”
“I know how she is. That’s the problem.”
He didn’t answer.
That night, I lay awake listening to him breathe, remembering how I used to stay perfectly still when my parents fought, believing silence could hold a house together.
I had been doing that for three years.
I wasn’t going to do it anymore.
Four days later, Lori called.
“I’m hosting the whole family for dinner next Saturday,” she said. “Just a little something. You’ll come, of course?”
“Of course.”
“You sound cheerful.”
“Do I?”
“Well. Bring something simple, sweetheart. Don’t stress yourself.”
“I won’t stress at all, Lori.”
After I hung up, Mason walked in.
“That sounded almost pleasant.”
“It was.”
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