I rested my thumb lightly on the inside of my wrist to take my own pulse, counting seventy steady beats while my father spooned gravy onto his plate.

“The clerk’s office gives a modest living to someone with Valerie’s limited ambitions,” my father said smoothly.

“She files public records and stays out of trouble.”

I didn’t correct him.

“He’s seven,” I said, looking straight across the table at my father.

“He’s drawing a stone bridge.”

“He’s making noise,” Chloe snapped, talking into her phone without looking up.

“It’s totally distracting.”

My mother reached over to straighten the silver salt cellar on the linen tablecloth, her lace handkerchief twisted into a damp ball in her palm.

“We’re having Sunday family dinner,” my mother said.

“Please don’t start an argument before dessert.”

Toby dipped his brush into the clear jar of water on his little wooden stool, his three fingers tucked tight around the smooth handle.

The water turned a soft blue as he wiped the bristles on the rim of the glass.

He painted three small arched pillars under the span of the bridge, his little feet dangling four inches above the Persian rug.