The clink of my fork against the plate was the loudest sound in the room.
I’d been pushing my dinner around for the better part of twenty minutes, dragging the mashed potatoes into ridges and valleys, circling the vegetables without actually eating them. My mother sat across from me, her posture light, her eyes bright in that way they got when she was keeping something to herself. There was a hum beneath her silence, a buoyant energy I could feel even across the table, like she was waiting for the right moment to spill whatever secret she was holding.
Normally, I might have asked. Normally, I’d have leaned in and teased it out of her, pressed until she laughed and gave it up. But tonight, I couldn’t bring myself to care.
I twirled my fork again, catching a glimpse of my mother’s smile.
