Mom sat beside me and held my hand while I cried.
After a while, I wiped my face and asked, “Is there still dinner?”
Dad returned from the kitchen with my plate, kept warm beneath foil. He placed it at my usual seat—the one with the chipped placemat I’d claimed as a child.Get Writing Tools
Steam rose from the chicken and rosemary.
I sat between my parents and picked up my fork.
For the first time that evening, I felt safe again.
