My son-in-law stood up in the middle of the restaurant, knocked my plate to the floor, and shouted, “You will not sit at this table. Clean it up if you want to eat.” I laughed. Ten minutes later, the waiter set something in front of him that drained every bit of color from his face.
The first thing that hit me was the sound. Not Peter’s voice. Not the crash of the plate. Not even the little gasp that ran through the restaurant like wind through dry leaves. It was the sharp, humiliating slap of marinara hitting polished leather. My shoes. One second I was standing there with an envelope…
