***
The rain grew heavier by five, a cold drizzle that streaked the kitchen windows and made the oak trees on Maple Street look dark and skeletal.
Richard entered the kitchen, his dark wool coat already draped over his arm.
“I want dinner on the table in fifteen minutes,” he said, his clipped tone cutting through the sound of the whistling kettle.
“The chicken needs another half hour, Richard,” I said, holding a blue porcelain teacup over the sink.
“Then make something else,” he said. “I have to leave for an evening meeting in the city.”
Ethan walked into the kitchen, his blue sketchpad tucked under his arm and his graphite pencil behind his ear.
“You have a meeting every Tuesday night now,” Ethan said, his voice hesitant but direct.
Richard turned slowly, his eyes narrowing as he looked at our son.
“My schedule is none of your concern, Ethan,” Richard said. “Your concern should be finding a job that pays more than eleven dollars an hour.”
