When Grandma moves out, Chloe, you can have the casita.
When Grandma moves out, Caleb, we can get a dog.
I suddenly realized that everyone at that table had known this was coming.
Everyone except me.
Finally.
When are you finally.
Like I’d overstayed. Like I’d been told and hadn’t listened. Like I was a houseguest who didn’t take the hint.
I sat there.
Looking at my son.
Thirty-eight years old. In a polo shirt with his company logo. With a glass of wine in his hand.
The little boy who sat on the porch steps with a juice box sounding out Ev-er-y house needs a porch for the sec-ond cup.
I thought about the sign.
On a metal shelf in the garage.
Between the Christmas decorations and the bottled water.
I folded my napkin carefully.
Placed it beside my plate.
And stood.
“Excuse me,” I said.
