But the bill hadn’t been paid.

We gathered around the oak dining table. I took the head. My mother to my right, Chloe to my left. Leo and Mia across from Greg. The food steamed between us.

Before I could ask anyone to pass the potatoes, Greg pushed his chair back. The legs scraped loudly. He stood.

My mother froze, fork halfway to her mouth. Chloe stared at her plate, knuckles white.

Greg looked around the table and swallowed hard. His face was flushed and I could see the tremor in his hands. He was terrified — not of pain, but of the ego death he was about to walk into.

He turned his gaze directly to my son.