Daniel’s Italian leather shoes clicked on the hardwood floor as he reached past my shoulder and lifted my dinner plate before I had swallowed my last bite.

“You’ve had plenty, Margaret,” he said, stacking my salad fork onto his own dish.

My niece, Chloe, set her water glass down hard on the linen placemat.

“She was still eating, Daniel.”

“She told me ten minutes ago that her stomach felt unsettled,” Daniel said.

He leaned down and pressed his forehead lightly against my hair.

“Didn’t you, darling?”

I cleared my throat and adjusted my glasses on the bridge of my nose.

“I believe I mentioned the pot roast was somewhat heavy.”

“See?” Daniel carried the dishes toward the swinging kitchen door.

“I know my wife.”

Chloe leaned across the table, her dark eyes sharp under the chandelier light.

“You look pale, Aunt Margaret.”

“It is merely the change in the autumn temperature,” I said.

I went to stand up from the mahogany chair, but the polished floor seemed to tilt six inches to the left.

My knee struck the edge of the table, sending the silver water pitcher wobbling against the salt shaker.

Chloe caught my elbow before my hip hit the floor.

“How long have you been off balance like that?”