Chapter 194

• The table had been set since late afternoon. My mother had insisted on arranging the place settings herself, even though I offered to do it. She said it was part of the ritual, that a table felt wrong if she didn’t touch each plate before it was filled.
• When Julian and I arrived, the house smelled faintly of roast chicken and thyme. My father was in the kitchen, carving meat with the careful precision of someone who believed the slices mattered just as much as the seasoning. My mother moved more slowly than she had before her illness, but she still made her way around the table, straightening a fork here, adjusting a folded napkin there.
• We were waiting for my younger brother and his family. The chairs were all in their usual places, except for one. It sat at the far end, a little apart from the rest, the seat pushed in neatly under the tablecloth. I noticed it the moment I walked in.