“Brooke has something she needs me to sign,” he said.

“So put on something decent and finish making the eggs.

There’s a pound of bacon in the drawer.

I told them it would be on the table.”

“You told them that.”

“It’s just breakfast.” He set out two plates, then a third, then a fourth.

“You’ve put it on the table every Sunday for the past eight years.”

I dried my hands on the dish towel, folded it in half, and hung it back over the oven handle.