Then she said it casually.
“The garage.”
I thought I had misunderstood her.
“The garage?”
“Yes.”
“It isn’t heated.”
“You have blankets.”
I slowly lowered my coffee cup.
I was five months pregnant.
My back hurt constantly.
My ankles were swollen.
And the previous day I had stood beside a flag-draped coffin while an honor guard folded the American flag that had covered my husband.
Now my sister wanted me on a concrete floor.
Before I could answer, my father spoke from behind me.
“You heard her.”
I turned.
Harrison Bennett sat at the kitchen table with a newspaper spread between his hands.
My mother, Eleanor, stood beside the coffee maker.
Neither looked uncomfortable.
That told me everything.
“This was discussed already?” I asked.
My father lowered the newspaper.
“You’ve been given enough consideration.”
“Consideration?”
His jaw tightened.
“Your crying yesterday made everyone miserable.”
For several seconds, I simply stared at him.
My husband’s funeral had been yesterday.
I had cried at my husband’s funeral.
Apparently that had inconvenienced them.
“Dad,” I said quietly, “Adrian died.”
“We know.”
“Yesterday was his funeral.”
“We know that too.”
“Then what exactly was I supposed to do?”
He slapped the newspaper onto the table.
“Not turn Thanksgiving into another funeral.”
