By eight, the long oak dining table was set for breakfast. Ethan sat next to me, his hair still damp from the shower, smelling of clean soap.
David sat at the head of the table, his physical presence dominating the room. He was fifty-six, with a broad chest and a booming, jovial voice that made the windowpanes vibrate.
He tapped his heavy ceramic coffee mug against the wood of the table to get our attention.
“To the new family,” David said, raising his mug. “Our family has stayed close because we never let traditions disappear, Natalie.”
He took a loud sip of his coffee and smiled at Ethan, then at me.
“My mother kept them, Linda keeps them, and now you are part of the chain,” David said.
Across the table, Grace sat with her hands clasped tightly in front of her waist, staring silently at her untouched piece of dry toast. Her small silver plate was empty except for a thin smear of butter.
