4. Chapter 4
Harriet
The table in Christine and Gary’s dining room may be smaller than the one at home, but it’s still a cozy rectangle. I slide into the seat across from the twins, my back to the kitchen door. Buck takes his place next to me. Christine and Gary are at opposing ends.
The food sits in the center of the table. The salmon fillets on their white platter, glistening with butter and herbs. The ceramic bowl of mac and cheese I made. There’s also a salad in a wooden bowl, bright with cherry tomatoes and cucumber.
I pull my chair closer to the table and reach for the serving spoon in the mac and cheese.
Three hours unconscious in the car while my family chose the one food I can’t eat as their main dish.
One moment of sitting on my husband’s knee and being told I’m too heavy.
I need something warm and solid in my stomach.
“Harriet?” Buck asks. “Grab me a beer? Mine’s empty.” He shakes his bottle.
The spoon stops halfway to the bowl. I look at his face, noting how relaxed he looks.
Rather than appear vindictive, I take his question as a bridge between us.
In our marriage, I’ve always handled little tasks like dinner, so him asking me to get him a beer is actually a good thing.
Besides, I left my suitcase in the car, anyway.
I can grab my suitcase, and while up, go to the garage to get his third beer for the night.
“Sure,” I say, setting the spoon down on the tablecloth. “Be right back.”
I push back from the table. The twins are passing the salad between them, Coris picking out the tomatoes before passing the bowl to Maren.
Gary is helping himself to the salmon, lifting two fillets onto his plate with the serving fork.
Christine sits at the far end of the table, eyes on her napkin, fingers smoothing its edges.
As quickly as I can, I go to the car, grab my suitcase and drop it off in the spare bedroom. Then, I walk to the garage and get him a beer.
Buck looks up when I approach, hand already reaching. “Thanks,” he says, taking the bottle. “Knew I could count on you.”
Despite all the stress from today, I smile. I almost tell him, “thanks for saying thanks.”
Sitting back down, I glance at the table of food. My breath catches.
The mac and cheese bowl now sits almost empty in the center of the table, a thin ring of yellow clinging to its sides.
On Buck’s plate is a mountain of mac and cheese—at least a cup and a half—sitting beside two small pieces of salmon pushed to the edge.
The twins have matching heaps on their plates, Coris already digging in while Maren pushes hers around with a fork.
Even Gary has a generous portion next to his fish.
I look down at my empty plate, then back at the nearly empty bowl. There’s not even a single serving left. Nothing but a spoonful. No one says anything.
Christine reaches across, picks up the bowl, and scrapes the last bit of mac and cheese onto my plate. She sets the bowl down and meets my eyes across the table, her expression careful. A bite, maybe two, if they’re small.
“Thanks,” I say, the word coming automatically.
I want to remind them that I made that mac and cheese because they forgot my allergy. I want to ask why no one thought to save me a proper serving. Why it feels like I’m constantly being forgotten.
The words die in my throat. Twenty-five years of marriage has taught me what happens when I make waves.
Buck gets defensive. The twins roll their eyes and side with their father.
I end up apologizing for being upset in the first place.
I’ve always held the belief that if everyone else says you’re the problem, then you’re the problem.
Three against one, and I’m always the one.
So I reach for the salad tongs instead and fill the rest of my plate with greens.
Across the table, Buck takes a swig of his beer. “Good fish.”
They fall into conversation. I’m not in the mood, but if I stay quiet, Buck will jump to remind me how I’ve been begging to talk all day.
The moment a natural lull hits, I seize my opening.
“So,” I say, setting down my fork. “Gary, how’s the new position at your accounting firm?”
He gives me his full attention. “It’s good. Busy, but good. The commute’s better than the last place.”
“That’s great,” I say, leaning forward. “Are you working with the same clientele?”
“Medical equipment, yeah. They’re expanding across the U.S. Means a lot of late nights, but it’s rewarding.”
“How about you two?” I ask, turning to the twins. “Coris, when does your summer class start? And Maren, did you hear back about that internship?”
Coris shrugs, pushing a piece of fish around her plate. “Week after next. Just basic requirements. Nothing exciting.”
“It’s biology,” I say. “You’ve always loved science.”
Another shrug. “It’s just to get the credit.”
I turn to Maren. “And the internship at Archer Financial?”
“I got it,” she says, not looking up from her plate. “Start Monday.”
“That’s wonderful!” I say, the warmth in my voice genuine. “You’re following in your Uncle Gary’s footsteps.”
“Yeah. Just filing and stuff, but I might get to shadow sometimes if things are slow.”
“I’m so proud of you,” I say, and I mean it.
Her face softens. “Thanks, Mom.”
Across the table, Buck sets down his beer with a soft thud. “Speaking of work,” he says, turning to Gary, “you hear about what happened at Marty’s last week?”
The conversation shifts into Buck and his brother trading workplace stories.
I sit back, watching Buck’s face. Away from the moment when I sat on his knee, he’s different.
His voice has warmed. He’s making jokes, not at my expense, but talking like a normal person at a normal dinner.
It happens like this sometimes. These moments when the weight lifts, when Buck remembers how to be the man I married.
Christine offers more salad. I refill glasses. When the conversation lags, I’m the one who picks it up by asking about Gary’s next fishing trip, about Christine’s book club, about whether the twins have thought about getting a pet for their new place.
“The shelter always has cats,” I say to Maren. “You could foster first, see how it goes with your schedules.”
Coris makes a face. “Our lease says no pets.”
“You could ask,” I say. “Sometimes they make exceptions.”
It’s Christine who asks me a question. “Harriet, how’s the shelter these days?”
I tell her. For the most part, everyone seems engaged. The twins ask about a hoarding situation that was on the news. Christine talks about a childhood dog she had. The rest of dinner passes without incident.
Then Gary pushes back from the table, patting his stomach with satisfaction. “That was great, Chris,” he says, nodding to his wife. He turns to Buck. “You want to step out on the deck for a smoke? I’ve got those cigars.”
Buck nods, already reaching for his beer. “Sounds good.”
They stand, chairs scraping against the floor. Buck pauses beside me, one hand briefly touching my shoulder. “Good dinner,” he says, not quite meeting my eyes.
Then they’re moving toward the sliding glass door that leads to the deck. The door slides open, and is left cracked just enough that the murmur of their conversation filters back inside.
Christine moves before the rest of us. She pushes back from the table, plate in hand, and begins gathering the empty serving dishes. “I’ll clear our plates,” she says, stacking the salad bowl on top of the empty mac and cheese dish.
I’m on my feet. “Let me help. I’ll wash up. You’ve done enough cooking.”
Behind me, the twins exchange a look in a particular silent communication that used to drive me crazy when they were teenagers. Coris raises a brow. Maren shrugs, one shoulder lifting beneath her sweater.
“That’s nice of you, Mom,” Coris says, her voice careful. “We’ll help.”
Maren nods, already standing. “Yeah. Team effort.”
I don’t say anything about it. Don’t point out the change. Don’t ruin the moment by making it a thing. I just nod, my hands full of serving dishes, and lead the way to the kitchen.