Ethan looked irritated.
“Claire, can we please eat without turning every conversation into an interrogation?”
I folded my napkin.
“Of course.”
Vanessa resumed discussing the restaurant.
I listened.
Then I checked the time.
David had messaged me that afternoon.
I’ll be there around eight-thirty. Please don’t discuss anything in front of Noah. He shouldn’t have to hear this.
I’d replied that I agreed.
But sitting at the end of my own table, I wondered whether any amount of preparation could protect Noah from the damage that might already have been done.
By eight-fifteen, most of the dinner plates had been cleared.
Noah helped me carry the empty serving bowls into the kitchen.
He was eleven, old enough to notice when adults were uncomfortable and young enough to blame himself for things he couldn’t understand.
While I wrapped the leftovers, he stood beside the refrigerator.
“Claire?”
“Yes?”
“Did Dad make you mad?”
I stopped.
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because he was mean about your chair.”
I looked at him.
He had Ethan’s dark hair and Vanessa’s green eyes.
Seven years earlier, he’d been a shy little boy who refused to eat carrots unless I arranged them into the shape of a train.
Now he was nearly as tall as my shoulder.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I said.
“I know.”
He hesitated.
“Mom says you’re sensitive about her being here.”
I put down the plastic container.
