Brenda’s husband, Tom, looked between all of us with the shell-shocked expression of a man who knew something was wrong but not how wrong.
Mark’s sister Dana was there too, along with her teenage daughter.
Nobody seemed to understand why the air in the room felt so thin.
Brenda kept talking anyway, bright and brisk, as if she could manage reality by keeping the conversation moving.
Dinner was miserable.
Brenda carved the roast.
Forks clinked against plates.
Leo barely touched his food.
Lily stared at her mashed potatoes and said almost nothing.
Twice Brenda tried to make conversation about school, and twice Mark answered in one word.
Every time I looked at my son and saw the ragged buzz where his curls had been, I had to unclench my teeth.
Halfway through the meal, Brenda reached across the table and said, far too cheerfully, “Well, at least we solved the hair issue before picture day.”
