He was telling a story about a storm in 1998, using his hands to mimic the rise and fall of the waves.
My mother, Martha, sat on his left, her fingers nervously adjusting her double strand of pearls.
She kept her head tilted toward him, nodding at every word.
I stood behind Chloe’s chair.
The dog, Coco, let out a low, wheezing grunt as I approached.
Chloe did not look up from her phone.
“Arthur,” I said, my voice quiet but clear. “Matthew does not have a place setting at our table.”
My father stopped speaking mid-sentence.
His guests at the table went quiet, their eyes turning to me.
Arthur took off his gold-framed reading glasses and began to wipe them with his napkin.
“We had to budget the package, Clara,” he said, his voice carrying over the noise of the room.
“We had a strict head count for the kitchen.”
“I sent my RSVP three weeks ago,” I said, my hand tightening on my silver watch. “We were both on the list.”
“Things change,” he said, putting his glasses back on.
My mother, Martha, gasped quietly and touched her pearl necklace as I spoke.
