Each year on the anniversary of Janice’s death, I hosted a small family dinner. I always served the blueberry pie she had called “birthday pie” because, in her mind, anything sweet deserved candles.
Zane attended every year.
He always sat at the opposite end of the table.
He rarely looked at Jeremy for more than a few seconds.
And he always left before dessert.
That year, Jeremy watched him from the moment he entered the house.
We were halfway through dinner when Jeremy placed his fork on the table.
The sound was barely noticeable.
Still, it silenced everyone.
He looked at me first.
Then my parents.
