Not ordinary silence.
The kind that makes you stop with your hand still on the door.
I stepped inside.
There were six pairs of shoes in the hallway.
My mother’s.
My brother Dermot’s.
My aunt Paulette’s.
Two pairs I recognized from cousins.
And Maia’s slippers.
I could hear something in the dining room.
A chair scraping.
Then my mother’s voice.
“Hold still.”
I froze.
There was something wrong with her voice.
It wasn’t loud.
It was calm.
Too calm.
I walked toward the dining room.
And then I saw my wife.
She was crouched underneath our dining table.
Eight months pregnant.
Her back pressed against the wall.
Her hair had fallen over one side of her face.
One hand was protecting her stomach.
The other was pressed against her mouth.
My mother was standing over her.
There was a plate in my mother’s hand.
Fish bones were scattered across it.
And my mother was pushing one toward Maia’s face.
For a second, I couldn’t understand what I was seeing.
My brain refused to put the pieces together.
Then Maia looked up.
Our eyes met.
And I saw the fear in hers.
Not surprise.
Not embarrassment.
Fear.
“Stop.”
My voice came out quieter than I expected.
