We were dining at The Briar Room, one of those upscale Austin restaurants where the dim lighting smooths away wrinkles and the menus conveniently leave out the prices. The evening was meant to celebrate several things at once: my son Matthew’s promotion, Kendra’s “big announcement,” and—according to Matthew’s text—“a chance for all of us to feel close again.”
I had walked in feeling hopeful.
That was my first mistake.
Kendra sat glued to Matthew’s side, her manicured hand resting possessively on his forearm like she had staked a permanent claim. Across the table sat her parents, Diane and Rick, already deep into explaining to the server how they “always do the chef’s tasting.” My husband, Tom, sat beside me, quiet as usual, shoulders slightly hunched the way they always were when he sensed tension brewing.
The waiter soon returned carrying a tray of plates: two ribeyes, a filet, and a gorgeous piece of salmon. The aroma alone tightened my stomach—I hadn’t eaten since midday.
