Nathan zipped the suitcase with one long, clean pull of the heavy brass zipper. “Claire, we have been over this every June. My mother gets overwhelmed with large groups. She has her ways.”
“It is two children,” I said, repeating the question with a gentle insistence. “Our children.”
“It is about respect,” Nathan said, turning to face me. “I am not going to force my family onto people who have asked for quiet.”
The words stung, carrying the familiar weight of his mother’s assumed disapproval. For eleven years, I had believed Linda found us too loud, too modern, or simply too different from the life Nathan had shared with Aurora.
Caleb pulled his hood lower, his face disappearing into the shadow of the blue cotton. He turned and walked down the basement stairs without another word.
At three o’clock, our silver minivan sat in the driveway, its passenger door showing the shallow dent from a grocery cart two winters ago. Nathan’s sedan was parked behind it, the trunk open to receive the last of his gear.
