“He is just playing a game,” Brad said, stepping forward and reaching for Will’s shoulder. “Come on, buddy, let us go get some punch.”
Will pulled away from his father, his finger still extended toward the green fabric. “No, the blue ink. The blue ink under her shirt has Daddy’s face.”
The patio went quiet, the only sound being the wind rustling the dry leaves of the maple tree above us.
Ellie adjusted her hold on the glass pitcher, her knuckles turning the same sharp white as the bakery box on the table.
My finger stayed frozen on the band of my ring.
Will’s tiny finger pointed directly at the hem of Ellie’s loose green blouse.
I took Will by the wrist and led him toward the back door, away from the patio. The screen door clicked behind us as we entered the kitchen, the yellow laminate counters catching the late afternoon sun.
Ellie followed us inside a moment later, her leather sandals slapping against the linoleum. She stepped up to the sink, reaching for the yellow linen dish towel hanging from the oven handle.
