“Thank you for my dinner, please may I leave the table?”
William Shepherd’s father examined him over the top of his half-moon glasses, as though he was a naughty school child, and lay his knife and fork down on his plate. “Yes, you may, but first perhaps you would like to tell me what your rush is?”
Will glanced between his parents, both of whom had yet to finish their meal. His plate was empty, scraped clean because he knew how much his mother detested waste.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and immediately regretted saying it. If asked why he was sorry, he wasn’t sure he had an answer, it had just seemed like an appropriate thing to say.
“And why are you sorry?” his father said.
“Henry, please,” his mother said.
Henry slowly swivelled his head to gaze at his wife for a moment, then returned h
