It was one of those glorious late-summer evenings. The sun was setting, pouring golden light across the front yard as my husband, Rob, our 12-year-old son, and I arrived at my in-laws’ house for dinner.
The smell greeted us before we even reached the door. My brother-in-law, David, was at the grill — he had ordered bougie steaks by mail and was tending to them as if they were newborn children.
Inside, my mother-in-law pulled out her family photo albums. We sat side by side on the couch, flipping through yellowed pictures of her children when they were young. She stopped on Rob’s high school senior photo, smiling at his floppy hair and awkward grin. “You should keep one,” she said. I tucked it into my wallet.
When dinner was ready, the table looked like something from a magazine — candles, wine, perfectly seared steaks. I was hungry, excited, and salivating. I cut off a big bite, barely chewed, and swallowed.
The meat stuck in my throat.
