Dinner in My Own House

"No," Adrian said.

"I'm going anyway."

"Lena, it's a trap."

"Of course it's a trap." I tucked the invitation into my bag. Julian had texted it in the morning: Dinner at home tonight. Milo has been asking for you. "But it's also the only way I'll see my son, and the only way I'll see what they've done to my house."

He crossed his arms. His jaw worked. I knew that look now. It meant he wanted to argue and knew he would lose.

"Fine," he said at last. "But we need a signal."

"A signal?"

"A word. If you say it, I come in and get you. No questions."

I thought for a moment. "Pineapple."

His mouth twitched. "Pineapple?"

"Nobody says pineapple by accident."

He almost smiled. Then he stepped close and fixed my collar, his fingers brushing my neck, and the almost-smile disappeared.

"Come back to me," he said quietly.

I wanted to say something clever. I could not find a single word.

The house looked exactly as I had left it, and nothing like it at all.

The gate opened. The white stone steps. The rose bushes I had planted my first spring there. I climbed out of Adrian's driver's car and walked up to the front door, and my legs felt like water.

Sasha opened it before I knocked.

"Lena! You came." She hugged me. Her perfume was mine. "Come in, come in. Make yourself at home."

Make yourself at home.

I stepped into the hall.

My blue vase was gone. So was the watercolor I had painted on our first anniversary. In their place hung a pale beach scene, the kind found in hotel lobbies. On the long wall where our wedding portrait had hung for seven years, there was now a family photo.

Julian. Sasha. Milo.

The three of them, smiling, on a beach I had never visited.

I kept my face still. I let my eyes slide over it like a stranger's.

"Is this you?" I asked. "Your family?"

"Our family," Sasha said warmly. "You're one of us, Lena. You always were."

I hated her so much that my teeth ached.

"Aunt Lena!"

Milo came pounding down the stairs. I braced myself. His hair stuck up in the back. He stopped three steps from the bottom.

"Hi, Aunt Lena," he said, flat and careful.

Then he looked at me.

His lower lip trembled. His eyes were huge. He took two quick steps, threw both arms around my waist, and buried his face against me.

For one second, I held my son.

He smelled of strawberries and crayons. His small heart hammered against my ribs. My hands found his hair on their own, and I did not stop them.

"Milo!" Sasha's voice cut sharp. "That's enough. You'll hurt her."

She pulled him away. Her fingers dug into his arm. A tight smile covered her face.

"Sorry, Lena. He's been so emotional since the accident."

"It's all right," I said. My voice came out almost steady. "I don't mind."

Milo looked back at me over his shoulder. His eyes were wet. His mouth moved.

Mama.

Without a sound.

I swallowed it down like broken glass.

The dining room had been rearranged. My chair, the one by the window, now sat in the corner.

Julian came in from the study, still in his work shirt. He saw me and stopped.

"Lena." He sounded surprised. And something else. Relief. "You came."

"You asked nicely," I said.

He pulled out the chair beside his own. It was my seat, the one next to the head of the table, and for a moment he forgot to pretend.

"Sit here," he said softly.

"Julian," Sasha said from the doorway, "I put her next to me."

A tiny pause. Julian looked at her, then at me, and I saw him decide.

"Next to Sasha, then."

He took the chair across from me. All through the first course, he did not eat. His eyes never left my face. They moved over my hands, my hair, my mouth, as if he were trying to learn me again.

It was unbearable. It was almost funny.

He had spent seven years not looking at me. Now that I belonged to someone else, he could not stop.

"Are you comfortable at Adrian Cole's?" he asked.

"It's quiet."

"Has he asked you for anything?"

"He made me warm milk."

A muscle jumped in Julian's jaw. Sasha laughed lightly and touched my arm.

"Lena, dear, you must be starving. We prepared something special."

She rang a small silver bell. A maid entered carrying a covered dish.

Sasha lifted the lid herself.

Steam rose. A rich, creamy smell. Pink and orange and thick, with little curled shapes floating in it.

My stomach dropped.

"Shrimp bisque," Sasha said brightly, setting the bowl in front of me. "Your absolute favorite."

Across the table, Julian went white.

Because he remembered what I had just remembered. Because he was the one who had held my hand in the emergency room, five years ago, when my lips had swollen and my throat had started to close.

I was allergic to shellfish.

Sasha smiled and held out a spoon.

"Go on," she whispered. "Take a bite."