Even Daniel’s father, Richard, rarely made a decision without asking Brooke first.
Daniel adored Brooke.
Brooke always laughed that he was “her easiest child,” and everyone around the table laughed with her.
Suddenly, her voice carried down the hallway. “Did you make the potato salad?”
“I did,” I said. “Extra mustard, the way Daniel likes it.”
“You’re a saint.”
My husband, Daniel, sat in the living room with his sisters.
He laughed at something Brooke said and reached for another beer without looking up.
“Did you make the potato salad?”
As Brooke walked past Richard with a tray of drinks, she rested her hand on the back of his chair. Richard reached up without looking and briefly covered her hand with his before taking his glass.
Neither of them reacted. Neither did anyone else.
I barely noticed it myself.
Families collect little habits over the years.
I told myself that was just another one.
Neither of them reacted.
That night, I lay in the dark listening to the house settle, to Daniel brushing his teeth, and to the faint buzz of his phone on the bathroom counter. Daniel came in, kissed my forehead, and fell asleep within minutes.
Then my phone lit up on the nightstand. Brooke’s name glowed across the screen.
