Page 167 of End Game

Dad reaches across the table and takes her hand.

For several seconds, nobody says anything.

Then Mom turns directly toward Cami.

“I am sorry.”

Cami swallows. “You don’t need to apologize to me.”

“I do if something I’ve done made you feel unwelcome.”

The careful expression Cami has been maintaining all morning slips a little. “Thank you.”

Mom nods, then looks back at me. “I hate this.”

There it is. There is no manipulation in the words and no attempt to blame anyone.

It’s grief.

I can understand grief without agreeing that it changes what I need to do.

“I know.”

I hate having my family split in two,” she continues. “I hate that tonight you’ll be somewhere else while everyone is here. And I hate that the girls will keep asking why Uncle Ronan isn’t coming to Christmas dinner.”

My chest tightens.

There are pressure points people can deliberately avoid. Then there are the ones they hit simply because reality put them there.

“I will miss them too.”

Mom’s fingers tighten around Dad’s. “I just keep hoping there’s a way we can all b e in the same room again.”

The sentence doesn’t technically contain a request.

My body reacts as if it does.

“I don’t know if there ever will be.”

She closes her eyes briefly. “Ronan—”

“No, Mom.” My voice stays calm, though doing that requires more conscious effort than it did a few minutes ago.

“I need you to actually hear that part. There may not be. This isn’t a cooling-off period with an automatic expiration date where we wait long enough and eventually everything goes back to normal.”

“No one is asking you to bring Cami around him,” Dad says gently.

I know how he meant it, but both Micah and Cami visibly flinch at the words.

“I know you’re not. But every time the conversation becomes about someday getting everyone back into the same room, we’re still talking about acceptance and reconciliation as if it’s the preferred eventual outcome.”

Neither of them responds.

The Christmas song in the living room changes, and a high violin note cuts sharply through the speakers. Someone’s spoon hits ceramic at almost the same time the tree lights flash in my peripheral vision.

Cinnamon. Coffee. Bacon. Heat from the oven. My mother’s perfume.

The sensations that have been separate pieces of background information all morning stop remaining separate.