The invitation sat on my kitchen table all night. Every time I walked past it I found myself reading the elegant gold lettering again as though the words might somehow change if I looked at them often enough.
They never did.
The Lawson family requested my presence for dinner. Requested. That part almost made me laugh.
Growing up, nothing in our house had ever been a request. Dinner had been an obligation. Conversation had been carefully managed. Opinions had been welcome only if they matched everyone else’s.
On Monday I got up early and I made coffee, burned the first slice of toast because I was staring at the invitation instead of the toaster and finally admitted I wasn’t going to stop thinking about it until I decided what to do.
The workshop downstairs was already waiting and
