Helga put her fork down before she spoke, and the table went quiet for her, the way it always did.

She said it in German.

The ex-girlfriend, she said, would be as wide as a barn door by autumn, and the baby would go to a house with a proper name over the door.

Arthur laughed once through his nose.

Julian reached for his water.

I had taken four years of German in high school and had never mentioned it to a single one of them.

“We will make her raise it,” Helga said, in English now, and turned her smile on me.

“That is the cleanest way.

She keeps the child, she keeps quiet, and she has no say in anything that matters.”

“Mother,” Julian said. “I am only saying what this table is thinking.” Her smile did not move.

“Claire agrees with me. Do you not, dear?” “I don’t know the situation,” I said. “No,” Helga said.

“You never do.” She picked up her fork and cut her meat into four equal pieces.

Arthur tapped his fork twice against his water glass, which meant the subject was closed.

“Pass the beans, Claire.