I carefully selected the menu for Sunday dinner, just as I did every week. Baked salmon with rosemary and lemon had always seemed to be my grandchildren’s favorite—though they never said so. I only noticed how twelve-year-old Elliot invariably went back for seconds, and eight-year-old Deardra ate every last crumb even though she usually left half her plate untouched.

Once upon a time, these dinners were full of laughter and conversation. In recent years, they had become a formality my son, Terrence, observed more out of obligation than desire—to spend a few hours with his sixty-seven-year-old mother. I arranged the plates from the wedding china Hugh and I had received decades ago: white with tiny blue flowers, the glaze worn faint in a few places.

I still saved them for special evenings. Today felt like one of those. I planned to ask, politely, about the family trip to Disneyland—the one the grandchildren had been chattering about last Sunday.

At five o’clock, the living room clock chimed. I smoothed the lavender blouse I’d bought especially for tonight. My closet hadn’t been updated in years, but this purchase felt important.

I wanted to look dignified when we discussed the trip—my first real vacation since retiring five years ago. The doorbell rang at five-thirty sharp. Terrence had always been punctual—a trait he inherited from his father.

He leaned down and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Hi, Mom.”

He smelled of expensive cologne and the faint ghost of cigarettes he’d supposedly quit three years ago. Marsha followed him inside, impeccable as ever, a woman with a cool smile and watchful eyes.

She worked as an accountant at a large firm and found reasons to mention it often. She wore a strict navy pantsuit, as if she had stepped out of an important meeting rather than a quiet Sunday. “Hello, Lorna,” she said, pressing a bottle of inexpensive wine into my hands.

“For dinner.”

“Grandma!” Deardra squealed, slipping past her parents and rushing toward the living room. She didn’t even look at me. Elliot, tall and moody, nodded without lifting his gaze from his phone.

His dark hair—exactly Hugh’s when he was young—fell across his eyes, and he flicked it back with practiced impatience. “Come in. Everything’s ready,” I said, brightening my tone.