“She mentioned it,” he said. “I figured she’d already talked to you.”
“You figured.”
“Madison, come on. It’s Mom. You know how she is.”
“I do know how she is. That’s the problem.”
He sighed the sigh he always sighed. The one that meant we were about to have the same conversation we’d had every holiday since our wedding.
“Can we just get through Thursday?” he asked. “One day. Please.”
I looked at him for a long moment. He mistook my silence for surrender. He usually did.
“That’s okay,” I said.
His shoulders dropped in relief.
He kissed my forehead and went upstairs to shower, humming.
Meanwhile, I sat at the kitchen island until I heard the water running.
Then, I opened my laptop.
The restaurant I had in mind was 20 minutes away, family-owned, with a private back room and a chef who owed me a favor from a catering job I’d sent his way in the spring.
I dialed. He picked up on the second ring.
“Madison. Two days before Thanksgiving. Tell me you’re joking.”
“I’m not joking. Eight people. Thursday at four. Private room. Full menu. I know it’s insane.”
There was a pause. I heard him breathing, thinking.
