For the first time in thirty-one years, I had deliberately allowed my husband to sit with uncertainty.
It felt strangely liberating.
Daniel wanted to confront Jenna that evening, but I asked him to wait until we had spoken with our lawyers and understood our options.
We needed to know what to say, what not to say, and how to protect ourselves if the conversation became ugly.
He agreed, although I could see how much it cost him.
Then I suggested Sunday dinner.
It had been a family tradition for years. Even when the children grew older and moved out, we tried to gather around the table at least twice a month.
Roast beef, potatoes, green beans, and too much food.
Mark would tell the same stories. Daniel would complain about work. Our daughter, Amy, would call when she couldn’t travel home.
Jenna had become part of those dinners long before her wedding.
