Gary’s voice stayed gentle. “Mom, I was raised the same way you were, and I want to tell you what that was like for me.” The dining room was so silent that the oven timer ticking sounded loud. “Every holiday, I waited at the kids’ table, and I watched the grown-ups eat the best of everything. I swore if I ever had a son, he would never watch the good food leave the table before he got a taste.” Marjorie’s jaw loosened, and her eyes grew wet.

“Dad hated it too,” Gary continued. “He told me once, behind the garage, that he wished he had stood up to you.” Marjorie’s hand flew to her mouth. Across the table, Isaac set down his fork, looking worried, and Gary smiled at him and shook his head. Then he turned back to his mother and said, “Mom, I think there is something you have been carrying that you never told us.”