Elijah
Dinner with the Jameses runs long because father likes the kind of dessert that takes three speeches to eat. Lizzy handles the room the way she handles a press line, smile measured, answers practiced, no edges left to catch. I keep my chair where mother put it and my mouth where it won't start a fight in front of guests.
When the door finally closes and the PR shooter packs his last lens, father says, "Ten minutes. Family room," like it's a weather report. He doesn't wait to see if we follow, we do.
The family room is quiet except for the soft tick from the old wall clock mother refuses to replace. She stands by the sideboard with two mugs she doesn't hand to anyone yet. Father takes the center of the rug like it belongs to him by lease. He doesn't start with small talk.
