“Did he trim the hedges by the garage?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
There was no follow-up, no question about my day, no complaints about the neighbor’s dog.
Usually, dinner was a loud affair, full of her stories about the PTA or the local bakery.
Tonight, the only sounds were the scrape of silver against porcelain and Leo chewing.
I watched her hands, she was cutting Leo’s meatball into perfect quarters.
Her fingers looked pale under the kitchen lights.
“Anna,” I said, keeping my voice gentle.
She did not look up.
“Pass the salt, please,” I said.
She picked up the ceramic salt shaker and placed it exactly halfway between us.
She did not hand it to me directly.
“Thank you,” I said.
She gave a tiny, polite nod to her plate.
The food tasted like dry paper in my mouth.
When Leo finished, he ran off to the living room to play with his blocks.
Anna stood up immediately and began clearing the table.
I stood up to help her, grabbing my plate and the salad bowl.
“I can take those,” I said, reaching for her plate.
