Derek’s face flushed dark red. “Sit down, Mom.”
The table went completely dead. Six guests stared down at their laps, mortified. My mother remained standing, utterly alone in the suffocating silence her son had constructed around her.
It was time to call the code.
I untied the black apron, folded it methodically in half, and draped it over the back of an empty chair. I was done with the costume.
“Actually, Derek,” I said, stepping fully into the dining room light. “I would love to make a toast.”
I retrieved my canvas backpack from the hook by the hutch, unzipped it, and pulled out the pale yellow legal folder. I placed it gently onto the center of the tablecloth.
“But first, a quick trivia question for the table,” I said, my voice projecting with clinical precision. “Since we are toasting this magnificent roof, Derek, why don’t you tell your guests whose name is currently on the deed?”
