“I just think it’s so brave, what you do. Working nights at a warehouse. A child sleeping on the hallway floor like a stray.” She laid a hand on her chest. “Some people just aren’t equipped, hon. And that’s okay.”
The room went quiet.
My face burned.
I did not say anything.
I was holding a bowl of gravy and my son was watching me with those wide gray eyes, and I thought, Not yet.
“How’s my little bodyguard?” Craig said, ruffling Wyatt’s hair.
Wyatt went rigid.
He stared at the table.
Under the cloth, Grandma’s hand found his, and held it.
We ate.
I couldn’t taste a thing.
Pastor Joyce said grace, and the room said amen, and the evening went on, polite and bright, with the clink of forks and somebody’s laugh too loud.
When the plates were mostly empty, Craig tapped his wineglass with a knife.
