“Noah,” I said, my voice flat and cold. “Get your coat.”
“Emily, don’t be dramatic,” Vanessa said, though she did not look up from her screen.
“We are leaving,” I said, standing up so quickly my chair scraped against the floorboards.
The hallway of my parents’ house was narrow, smelling of old pine floor cleaner and the damp wool of our winter coats hanging on the brass pegs. Noah stood by the door, his small arms already pushed into his heavy blue jacket, his eyes wide as he watched me pull on my wool coat.
My mother slipped out of the dining room, her soft steps making no sound on the worn carpet runner. She held a plastic Tupperware container tightly against her chest, her knuckles pale.
“Emily, please,” she whispered, her eyes darting back toward the dining room doorway.
“I am not going to let him speak to my husband like that, Mom,” I said.
She did not argue, but she reached out and pressed the container into my hands, her fingers cold. I could feel the warmth of the leftover rolls through the plastic.
“Take these for Noah,” she murmured, her voice trembling. “He barely ate his dinner.”
“Thank you,” I said, placing the container into my canvas bag.
“Your father is just worried about the economy,” she said, her usual apologetic defense coming out in a rush. “He doesn’t mean to be so harsh.”
“He means every word of it,” I said, pulling my keys from my pocket.
She reached out to touch Noah’s shoulder, her hand hovering for a second before she pulled it back.
The cold October air hit my face like a splash of well water as we stepped out onto the porch, leaving her alone in the dim light of the corridor.
The garage bay on Westerville Road was dark, but a single yellow light burned inside the small front office of Miller Automotive. Daniel was sitting at the metal desk, a clean white rag in his hand as he rubbed the threads of a heavy steel wrench. He rubbed his hands together afterward, a habitual motion to clear away grease even though his skin was completely clean.
