Margaret Carter sat in a corner vinyl booth under a hanging yellow glass shade.

She wore a dark blue cardigan and held a white ceramic cup of chamomile tea in both hands.

Her thumb and forefinger twirled her single strand of pearls around and around.

“You look thin, Evelyn,” Margaret murmured softly as I sat down across the Formica table from her.

“I’m fine, Mom,” I said.

“Your father is sick with worry,” Margaret said, her voice a gentle murmur meant to calm the table.

“The whole choir was asking questions after church on Sunday.