scorched potatoes on my dish. “He is not mad at anyone.”
Kaylee stood up from the table without waiting for anyone to clear the dishes. She picked up her glass plate, carried it straight to the porcelain sink, and turned the hot water tap on full force.
Steam rose off the stainless steel basin as she dropped the yellow sponge into the soapy water. She scrubbed the baked cheese off the glass rim in slow, steady circles, her shoulders straight and square under her maroon jacket.
“I can wash those plates, Kaylee,” I said, standing up to scrape the Pyrex dish into the trash bucket under the sink.
“I am already standing here, Mom,” she said, without turning her head toward me.
She did not ask why Travis had spoken to her like that after nine years in our home. She did not look out the kitchen window toward the
