She called me the next day, her voice dripping with honey.
“I’m so glad you’re being reasonable.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” I replied.
The test was done. Then we waited.
Patricia treated the waiting period like she was preparing for a coronation.
She insisted the results be opened at Sunday dinner. Robert, she said, deserved to hear everything together “as a family.” She turned it into an event.
When we arrived, the table was already set—candles, silverware, cloth napkins. A polished silver platter sat at the center.
And on that platter… the envelope.
Dave muttered, “This is insane.”
“Your mother loves theater,” I said.
Sam was safely at my sister’s house. I wasn’t letting him anywhere near that dinner.
Robert looked tired—more tired than I’d ever seen him.
He gave me a small nod. “Thank you for coming.”
Before I could respond, Patricia cut in, “We’re all here now, so let’s just get it over with.”
No one had even sat down.
“Mom, can you not act like you’re hosting a game show?” Dave said.
“I’m trying to bring clarity to a difficult issue,” she replied tightly.
“You created the issue,” I said.
Her eyes flashed, but Robert spoke first. “Sit down.”
Dinner was unbearable. Patricia barely touched her food, her eyes constantly drifting toward the envelope.
I looked at her and said, “You should remember that.”
Dave nearly choked on his water.
Finally, Patricia set down her fork. “I think we’ve waited long enough.”
Robert said nothing.
She reached for the envelope, slid a manicured nail under the flap, adjusted her glasses, and began to read.
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