Early February 2015
When I walked into the kitchen, I knew something was up.
There was tension in the air, electricity. I felt it.
The kitchen is small. Stove to the right. Refrigerator on
the left. Sink on the back wall. Husband Tom stood at the stove frying piles of
chopped veggies in his favorite cast iron skillet - green zucchinis, purple
onions, yellow peppers, red tomatoes. He
focused on building his signature frittata, his back toward our daughter's
boyfriend, Elliot, who leaned against the narrow counter space between
refrigerator and sink.
"We're not usually together, I mean alone, without
Erin," Elliot said when I walked in. "I should've said something
sooner."
I heard hesitation, a nervous tone in his voice.
"What's up?" I asked, nudging Tom to attention.
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