One Sentence Across the Table

pushed my chair back.

“Fine.”

I reached for my coat on the back of the chair.

My hands were steady. That surprised me.

I leaned down, picked up the casserole dish I’d brought, the one with the green beans and fried onions still baked onto the sides, because if I was being thrown out of Thanksgiving I wasn’t leaving my Pyrex behind. Petty. True.

Then Richard continue reading …