The bag slipped from his hand.
Bread rolls scattered across the floor.
“You,” Grant whispered.
Eli did not move.
“Tell her.”
Grant recovered quickly.
“I don’t know what game you’re playing.”
“Tell her.”
“I have nothing to tell.”
Eli reached into his jacket pocket and removed his phone.
“I was hoping you would make the right choice.”
Grant’s face lost what little color remained.
“What is happening?” I asked.
Neither answered.
They stared at each other like two men who had been waiting years to finish the same conversation.
Grant finally pointed toward the door.
“I think you should leave.”
Eli laughed bitterly.
“You’ve been trying to make me leave for years.”
I looked between them.
“What are you talking about?”
Eli finally turned toward me.
“Mom, do you remember my eighteenth birthday?”
How could I forget?
Eli’s Eighteenth Birthday
I had spent weeks planning his birthday dinner.
