he lowered his eyes.
That silence hurt more than Christa’s remark.
I opened the refrigerator.
Inside were half-finished takeout containers, leftover pasta, and a small package of cheese.
I stared at the shelves.
I’d spent nearly two days preparing a meal that I wasn’t welcome to share.
And somehow, my own son thought that was acceptable.
I closed the refrigerator gently.
”Alright,” I said. “Now I understand.”
Christa smiled, apparently relieved that I wasn’t making a fuss.
She returned to the dining room.
I picked up my ham.
The roasting pan was still warm, so I wrapped it securely with a kitchen towel.
Then I walked through the front door, carried it to my car, and placed it on the passenger seat.
I even fastened the seat belt around it so the pan wouldn’t slide.
It was an absurd sight.
A sixty-three-year-old woman driving home with a twelve-pound ham buckled
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