Mark spoke just enough to keep the rhythm going, but there was a tension beneath his words, something held tightly beneath the surface.
I could feel it building, not in sudden bursts, but in slow, quiet increments, like pressure gathering behind something that would eventually give way.
Brenda, oblivious or perhaps choosing to be, continued as if everything had been resolved days ago, as if nothing truly important had been disturbed.
When the plates were nearly empty, Mark finally set his fork down, the soft clink against the plate louder than it should have been in that moment.
“Mom,” he said, and the single word shifted the room, not dramatically, but enough that everyone paused, sensing a change they couldn’t yet define.
