Now my son had used Rusty’s bowl to humiliate me.
I picked it up.
A few brown pellets rattled against the metal.
David watched uneasily.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking something that belongs to me.”
Then I looked at the cake.
“Did Emily choose the blue frosting?”
Brooke blinked.
“What?”
“The cake. Did Emily choose it?”
“Probably. I don’t remember.”
I knew she was lying.
Emily had chosen blue for my birthday cakes since she was seven because Arthur used to tell her it was the color of happiness.
I carried the bowl into the kitchen and tipped the food into the trash.
Behind me, chairs scraped against the floor.
David followed.
“Mom, you’re embarrassing us.”
I turned.
He stood in the doorway with the same expression he used at sixteen when I caught him driving Arthur’s truck without permission.
An expression that assumed the only real problem was getting caught.
“David,” I said, “your wife put dog food in front of me while you watched. And you’re worried about being embarrassed?”
He rubbed his forehead.
“You’re taking this too seriously.”
“Tell me something. Did you know about the recording?”
He looked away.
“Brooke handles that stuff.”
“Did you know she planned to make me look confused?”
His eyes moved toward the dining room.
That was all the answer I needed.
