My father was carving the roast beef with the hyper-focused thoroughness he only uses when he desperately wants a task that requires looking down.

And my mother was radiant.

That’s the terrifying tell it took me years to decode.

My mother’s brightness runs in direct inverse proportion to her internal weather.

She was pouring expensive wine, complimenting everyone’s posture, spinning a long, sparkling story about a difficult bride from Decatur.

But her silver fork and knife touched her porcelain plate with exactly one millimeter too much force.