Chapter 21: The Roast

Winifred's dining table sat twelve with the leaf in, and she had put in the leaf.

Thirty relatives had said yes, so she had borrowed folding chairs from the church and set them in the hall.

My great-uncle took the seat of honor without being asked.

My mother came in last, carrying a roast.

She had made it in Winifred's kitchen that afternoon, under Winifred's eye.

She set it down at the center of the table.

"Well," she said brightly. "This is a lovely turnout."

Nobody answered.

My father sat at the far end, beside Brooke. He had not touched the bread.

Maxwell sat on my right.

He had come in his shirtsleeves with a bottle of wine, and my great-aunt had looked him up and down and said, "So you're the one."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good," she'd said, and taken his arm.

Winifred stayed standing.

"Before anyone cuts anything," she said, "I'd like to play something."

She set her phone in the middle of the table, between the roast and the butter dish, and pressed the arrow.

My own voice came out of it first, small and tinny.

Then my father's.

Then my mother's, saying clearly, to a yard full of morning, which daughter she had picked and why.

Nobody ate.

My great-uncle put down his fork somewhere around the part about the receipt in the handbag.

When it ended, Winifred lifted her finger and the little speaker went silent.

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